I’m going to regret this. Every instinct in me says it’s a mistake and I should just call a driver to get as far away as possible from her. But I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Last time I saw you, you made me lose my first case in years. And now you’ve assaulted me. What do you think the universe is trying to tell me?”
She fights back a laugh. “That I’m a danger to your career and prone to cause you bodily harm?”
Maybe she’s right. Somehow, agreeing to this feels like the cure to whatever spell Rhiannon’s put me under that’s controlling my mind. Maybe I just need to be around her for a few minutes and have her slice me open to realize she’s not as great as I was remembering.
A quick trip to the hospital, and I’ll finally get her out of my head and system. I’ll see all the ways she’s a walking disaster, convince myself that the spark I thought we had from our two hook-ups was nothing more than surface-level lust, and then proudly walk away never to think of her again.
Maybe that’s why the universe keeps throwing us together. So that I can finally see, up close, that we’re completely incompatible and that her personality is terrible.
Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.
Except I already know that it’s not. She feels like a danger that’ll cause me a hell of a lot more than a simple cut. That she might be a risk to my carefully curated, painfully predictable world. To the focus and drive that I’ve always possessed and has paid off so well. To the plan I’ve had since I was a kid: take over my father’s company someday and die an old, single, very wealthy, extremely grumpy man.
I want to tell her she’s a walking red flag. Because if she were anyone else, I’d sue her and whatever company she works for without a second thought for assault. And this time, I’d win.
I mean, she did just throw a piece of my furniture at me, break it, and draw blood.
But it’s Rhiannon.
The woman I barely know anything about yet can’t stop wanting to. Desperately, stupidly, irrationally.
Just one more hour around her and then I’ll be cured.
“Alright, let’s go,” I finally concede. Itmightneed stitches, and I can’t have this slow me down with work. And I’m not agreeing to this because I want to find another excuse to spend time with her. It’s definitely not that.
I let her lead the way out of the hotel to the parking garage where she parked her car. We ride the elevator in silence, just the hum of machinery and the soft hotel music playing while I press a thin bit of gauze to the wound that she’d had on her cleaning cart.
When the doors slide open to the garage and she moves towards a vehicle that looks like was just driven off a pound lot, I start to rethink every life choice that brought me to this moment.
“Is that your car?” I eye the beat-up mid-size SUV that’s parked in front of me.
It’s probably from the early 2000s—old enough to qualify for antique plates at this point. The hood is covered in rust, and when she hits the unlock button, I notice that one of the taillights don’t light up. It’s definitely seen better days. I’m doubtful it would even pass inspection. And when I notice the tags on the front window, my suspicion is confirmed.
Hasn’t been inspected in six years.
Damn. A mechanic hasn’t touched this thing since before the pandemic.
“You don’t have to be rude.” She laughs as she walks to the driver’s side door. At least she’s in the teasing mood and doesn’t seem like she’s still angry about the whole suing her thing.
“I usually take the train into the city for work, but I missed it, so I had to drive.”
I walk to the passenger side and try to open it, but it’s still locked despite her already being in the drivers’ seat. Rhiannon reaches across the center console to manually lift the unlock button for me.
“Key fob doesn’t unlock all of the doors?” I ask smugly as I slide inside.
“Zip it.”
She kicks the car into reverse, and the brakes scream in protest. Normally, that alone would be enough to confirm that Rhiannon and I are too opposite to ever be anything more than strangers who’ve hooked up a few times. I prefer driving vehicles that I don’t think are going to leave me abandoned on the side of NYC’s busy streets or launch me into a storefront.
But somehow, it does the exact opposite. Because she doesn’t care what I or anyone else think about her car. She knows what I do for a living, she knows where I live, and she still didn’t suggest we take a taxi to hide the state of her ride.
It’s hers. She’s proud of it.
And that only makes me like her more.
Chapter 15 – Cain
