The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(10)

“I’d be fine with that, too, but she actually sent a proxy in her place. She assured me he knows everything about the company, has been around the business for years.”

Rhiannon’s heart lurched. “Oh?” It was William. It had to be William. Why would they send a flashy hot new spokesman, when they could send the company’s CEO, a longtime employee?

“He’s a lovely man, I met him at the party last night. He’s getting micced offstage. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” She waved and walked out.

Ask. Just to make sure it is who you think it is. “Did she send William?” Rhiannon asked, following behind her, leaving Lakshmi behind in the dressing room.

“My understanding is William already left to return to L.A., but we’re in good hands.”

Rhiannon’s stomach roiled as they walked up behind a tall, dark-haired, muscular man standing not far from the stage. She fixed her gaze over his shoulder. The shoulder she’d dug her fingernails into.

It was fine. This wasn’t the first time she’d sat across from a man she’d had sex with and had to pretend everything was fine. It had been years, but surely one didn’t forget that skill.

So long as he kept his mouth shut and followed her lead, everything would be . . . fine.

At their approach, he glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes grew wide. Meanwhile, the knot in her stomach tightened. She could count on one hand the number of powerful men she knew who were capable of following a woman’s lead. What were the odds he was one of them?

Sleeping with this guy was going to bite her in ways she never could have anticipated when she’d been sitting on that lounge chair in Cayucos, swiping away on her phone, cursing the rental house’s slow Wi-Fi.

“Samson Lima,” Helena said sweetly. “Please meet Rhiannon Hunter.”





Chapter Four


RHIANNON.

Samson rolled the name around his head, tasted it, examined it. It should have sounded wrong and foreign, given that he’d been thinking of her as Claire for months. Especially since Claire had been the name he’d groaned when he’d been inside her.

But Rhiannon suited her. Rhiannon was witchy and mysterious and secretive, and her shadowed eyes were all those things.

“Samson is the new spokesman for Matchmaker.” Helena beamed at him. “Rhiannon is the founder and creator of Crush. It’s the dating app for women, as they say.”

“It’s the dating app for everyone,” Rhiannon corrected, and Samson didn’t miss the steel beneath her pleasant reply.

He knew there’d be a rep here from Crush, but he hadn’t had time to vet her identity. Aunt Belle had called him less than a half hour ago, weeping, and begged him to come here today and fill in for her. William was on a plane, she’d said, her voice wobbling. She simply couldn’t get up in front of a big crowd and do this interview.

“Where are you?” he’d demanded. The sound of traffic had been loud on her end.

“Don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

“I’m . . . I’m going to Australia.”

He’d stopped and stared at the phone, then put it back to his ear. Australia? As far as he knew, his aunt didn’t know a soul in Australia. “Aunt Belle . . .”

“Please. I thought I could do this, all of it. But I’m not Jennifer.” Her voice grew faint. “I have to go. Please cover for me.”

He’d grimaced. “Tell me what they’re going to talk about so I’m prepared.”

Spoiler: Aunt Belle hadn’t mentioned that his coguest was the woman he’d been chasing through a hotel last night. Probably because his aunt hadn’t known he was chasing her coguest. To be fair, neither had he.

Ah, jeez. Matchmaker’s competitor. He’d slept with his aunt’s competitor. In what world.

Samson held out his hand slowly, wondering what she’d do. There was no rage in her expression today, only deliberate calm.

She examined his hand for a second, and he wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking. About how she’d cried out when he’d made her come with his fingers, or how he’d cupped her breast in his palm.

She slid her hand in his. “Mr. Lima. A pleasure.”

Her fingers were slender and long, the nails short and buffed. When she’d coasted them over his body, he’d thought they were a workingwoman’s fingers, her palms calloused.

A tingle ran down his spine as they shook hands, brusque, personality-less, two strangers meeting each other for the first time. Today she was back to her jeans and black sweatshirt, though it was zipped up, so he couldn’t tell if she had a vintage band tee on under it.

Her hair was loose again. Under the indoor lights, all the shades of black and brown that made up the curls were more muted.

“Call me Samson,” he murmured.

She didn’t tell him to call her Rhiannon, he noticed, but he could say it in his head. Replace the name he’d thought belonged to her.

She dipped her head and slipped her hand out from his.

He flexed the fingers she’d touched. He wanted to touch her again, but of course, he couldn’t do that. It was apparent she didn’t want anyone to know they’d met. Neither did he, really. His persona at Matchmaker didn’t mesh with short hookups.