Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(11)

It doesn’t matter. I can roll with it. I’m used to circumstances making me adjust.

The excitement in the room is palpable as we each find our assigned desks. Eager to begin, I open my folder and shuffle through its contents: bid directives, square footage, key codes for the CAD drawings, building specifications, etcetera. These are all the things that make a girl like me happy. Construction porn.

With a smile wide, the adrenaline escalating, and finally feeling like I’m back in my element, it all fades when I glance up and meet the intense gaze of Ryder.

A mere five feet in front of me.

Seriously? As if tripping and falling against him wasn’t enough, now I have to sit and work directly across from him.

Our eyes hold momentarily before he smiles softly and nods. Was he always this nice to me? I don’t remember him being so. If he was, maybe my brain was so clouded by my constant competitiveness laced with lust for him that I never noticed it.

He shouldn’t be nice to me.

Nice is distracting.

And I don’t need distractions.

I need game-on.

“You ready?” I ask him, my own smile playing at the corners of my lips, a blatant and ironic attempt to distract me from my own thoughts.

“Bring it on, Denton.” He flashes his own grin. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got.”

“More than you can handle.”

His laugh is quick and echoes in my head as I look down, glad to feel like we are back on a more familiar playing field. But as I start to organize the papers in the folder how I prefer them, I realize my mind is still on Ryder.

Christ, Harper. You said you weren’t going to let him distract you.

Not him or his beard or his blue eyes framed by black lenses or strong jaw that pulses at the corners when he concentrates. Nope, I’m not distracted. Not by that or with the realization that the combination of his features is my kryptonite when it comes to a man. A little mix of the bad boy look for this professional woman. I mean just add in some tattoos and he’d be exactly my type.

But he’s not. He can’t be.

He’s Ryder.

And I don’t like Ryder. I mean, I like him and all but he’s so much fun to spar with and compete against that I want that old Ryder back. The one I used to know that would bring out the best in me, make me hate him then later laugh with him. But this new Ryder is a mixed bag who I’m sure will still go head to head with me, but I like the aloofness of years ago better. The one who wouldn’t glance twice at that look in my eye today or keep trying to make eye contact with me in the car after to make sure I’m okay. The guy who’s not nice and doesn’t catch me when I fall.

All of them are perfectly justifiable reasons why I shouldn’t like him.

So why don’t I believe any of them?

The bid, Harper. Start the bid.

Win the job.

Quit trying to figure everything else out first.





Chapter Six



Harper




I go through my calculations again and try to see what I’m missing. My pencil raps against the desk and when I reach for my drink, I realize it’s warm and lacking carbonation. No time like the present to stretch my legs, give my eyes a short rest, and get a new drink. Maybe the respite will help my second wind to kick in.

It’s only when I remove my earbuds and slip my heels on beneath my desk that I realize the war room (as we’ve dubbed it) is basically empty except for Alan and Ryder. Everyone else must be getting a late lunch to fortify themselves for the long night ahead.

I take a few minutes to turn all of my notes facedown on my desk and shut my laptop from prying eyes. As I stand, I take note of Alan bent over the floor model, jotting down notes about something, and Ryder leaned back in his chair, lips pursed, glasses slightly askew, and forehead furrowed in concentration while he scribbles on the paper in front of him.

Yep. He’s still attractive. It’s not like he’s going to not be in the four hours we’ve been at this. I shake my head and drag my eyes away from him. Fresh air is definitely needed. Open space without him crowding it or his laugh filling it or his intelligence questioning it.

With high-caloried goodness straight from the vending machine in one hand, a cold bottle of Diet Coke in the other, I head back into the workroom with renewed vigor. I’m confident I’ll be able to make some lucid sense of the equations currently a chicken-scratched mess of numbers jumbling up my pad of paper. But when I take a seat, I note that Ryder is the only one left in the room.

Figures.

Paranoia strikes the minute I look at the mess on my desk. Was that top sheet of notes askew like that? Was my pad that far forward on the desk? Did someone look at my numbers? I squint my eyes and replay my actions in my head, uncertain whether I have an overactive imagination or they’ve actually been touched.

“You’re back?” Ryder’s gravelly voice slices through the silence. His comment arouses my suspicions.

“Where’s Alan?”

“He went to get something to eat. I thought you’d left too.”

“Nope. I have zero plans of leaving until I’m certain I can undercut your numbers.”

“Hmm.”

I wait for him to say something more than his murmur and hate that it drags my mind to our past. I’d rather have his trademark sarcasm to sneak through, but that lone, drawn-out sound is all he utters. And then nothing else. His eyes are on his laptop, his attention elsewhere.