Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(12)

I’m just being paranoid. Next time I leave my desk, I’ll need to pay closer attention to where I put things.

The room is silent except for the sounds my papers make as I shuffle them. My inherent need to start with a clean and organized desk is futile but still an effort I make.

“Missing something?”

I falter in motion, self-conscious that he’s watching me. “Nope. I’m good.” I refuse to look up. It’s the easiest way to keep my promise to myself. The one to ignore him so I can keep focused. “Just making sure you didn’t sneak a peek at my desk.”

That chuckle of his echoes around the empty room as I hear his chair creak followed by the fall of his feet on the floor. Maybe I’ve run him off to take his own break so now I can have some peace without the charged undercurrent that seems to be a constant when he’s near.

But when his footsteps stop, they squash my hopes of him leaving right along with them.

“This whole setup is unconventional. I swear Van Dyken is trying to make us all paranoid by the time this bid is over. This whole leave-your-work-on-the-desk thing is odd. The bid’s secretive, but our numbers sitting on our desk for others to snoop are free game? Makes no sense.”

What’s with the small talk? Ryder and I never did small talk before. We were at each other’s throats one day then urged each other on the next. We did rivalry well, but never did the chatty thing or the ask-about-back-home thing. We were competitors who respected each other, but friends? No.

So his niceness feels strange to me. I don’t want him to be nice. I just want him to quit talking so I can stop wanting to look up and see if his hair is mussed up from running his hands through it like he used to do when we’d been in the library studying until closing time. A look that used to make my insides flutter and mouth water.

“Don’t you agree, Harper?”

My mind blanks when I glance up and find him right in front of me—ass resting against the front of the desk, one arm crossed over his chest while the other hand plays with the end of his beard, head angled to the side—staring at me with his eyes narrowed behind the black frames of his glasses.

That straight punch of lust I felt checking out Hot-Suit Guy hits me just as violently as it did this morning (was it only this morning?), and yet I balk at the feeling because Hot-Suit Guy is Ryder. And I can’t feel lust for Ryder. I can’t feel anything for him because we’re competing against each other, and not for bragging rights over who’s going to graduate first in our MBA program but rather for a multimillion dollar project that could make or break my career. And possibly his.

Distance between us is needed. Space. And us falling into bed where our bodies are on top of each other’s like my mind keeps envisioning is definitely not space.

So I need to think about winning the bid. Then he’ll be gone. The distraction over.

But as I look at him…

…his fingers…

…I’m not sure if winning in the end…

…They play with the thick end of his beard…

…is going to rid me of that crush I have on him…

Finger it. Slowly.

…or will this time with him…

Methodically.

…slowly stoke its forgotten fire back to life?

Sexily.

And I can’t help but wonder if that’s how he touches a woman. With that much finesse.

“Harper?”

I’ll blame it on the beard. But I know it’s so much more than that.

Sexual chemistry like this is impossible to ignore. Hard not to satisfy. And definitely hasn’t gone away in the thirteen years since I’d seen him last. That want feels stronger, if that’s even possible.

After, Harper. Reward sex after you win. Remember?

“Huh? What?” Pulling my gaze from his fingers, I look up to find a question in his eyes, and I’m immediately embarrassed. I swear to God he knows what I’m thinking and that in itself is mortifying.

Of course he knows. He’s the one who had to bring up beard burn earlier just to make sure I knew that he’d heard me.

Seconds pass with our eyes searching each other’s before he finally lets me off the hook, allows the sly smile to ghost over his lips despite the knowing look in his eyes, and then speaks. “You were answering my question.”

My synapses misfire. They’re stuck on my thoughts of him and his beard and wondering about his fingers and not on the here and now. And I need them to be on the here and now. “I’m sorry. I was distracted by my figures.”

“Your figures?” His chuckle tells me he’s not buying my lie and the amusement in his eyes sparks my need to explain how my gaze can be on him but my mind on my numbers.

“Yeah. My figures. I was contemplating if I needed to change them in case you came over here and copied them while I was gone.” There. Take that.

But he’s not offended in the least. His laugh is back and grating on my nerves as it sounds off around me. “You really think I’d steal your numbers? That that’s the only way I could beat you?” This time it’s him giving me a look of disbelieving shock, as if I’m crazy. But when I don’t smile at him in return, his smile fades slowly. “Really? You think I’d stoop that low? I’m not that desperate,” he says with a shake of his head and a quirk of a smile. “Yet.”