The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(16)

There was sorrow and guilt and apology there, and Rhiannon felt that stupid hope churning inside her.

A family emergency. Such vague words. They could mean anything from someone dying to a mild cold. And in the end, it didn’t matter, because as she’d told the world . . . how could you believe someone who had already let you down once?

So she cut eye contact with the jerk and smiled at Lakshmi. “I gotta run.”

“No problem. Go rest at the hotel.” Lakshmi consulted her phone. “You don’t have anything on the docket until tomorrow morning anyway.”

And as much as Rhiannon hated running, that was exactly what she did. Because she knew she’d hate herself for running now much less than she’d hate herself for hoping later.





Chapter Six


CLASSICAL MUSIC swirled through the air, spilling out of the empty living room. Rhiannon peeked inside, then said, “Sienna, turn off the music.” A small black device on the huge heavy desk turned red and the music cut off.

Katrina had a pretty set schedule, and usually that schedule included forgetting to turn the music off when she was done reading her newspaper to go make breakfast every morning.

Rhiannon sniffed the air. Whatever Katrina was cooking, it smelled good. She followed her nose, walking to the large, open-concept kitchen, the sun glinting off stainless steel appliances.

The sprawling Santa Barbara mansion belonged to her silent investor and best friend, Katrina King. As ambitious as Rhiannon was, she didn’t require fancy houses to keep her happy. Big spaces meant more things to dust. As the kid of a housekeeper, she felt weird overseeing her own cleaning staff. Even if she had made sure her mother had a well-paid weekly maid service.

Dark lofts in transitioning neighborhoods had always been more Rhiannon’s style than something like this light and airy, mostly-constructed-of-windows hilltop home. In fact, she maintained her condo in L.A., close to Crush’s offices, and crashed there for most of the week.

But weekends she spent here and had since about a year ago, when Katrina had far too casually asked if she’d be interested in living with her. Katrina rarely asked for anything, and Rhiannon had seen the sense in the setup. Rhiannon didn’t have to worry as much about Katrina, and Katrina had some company in the house she didn’t leave often.

Katrina was in front of the stove, bopping away to whatever music was coming through her giant noise-canceling headphones. She wore a camisole and short-shorts, the cotton barely containing her voluptuous body. Katrina had once confided that she loved wearing scanty clothing at home because every dimple and stretch mark and roll reminded her that she no longer had to please cameras and photographers and her agency . . . and her father.

Since she knew how much Katrina hated being surprised, Rhiannon clomped loudly into the kitchen and waved until Katrina caught sight of her in her peripheral vision. The younger woman jumped, then beamed and removed her headphones. “You’re home early! I thought you were flying in tonight.”

Rhiannon yawned and adjusted her silk scarf. She’d barely been alert enough last night to trade out her clothes and wrap her hair before she fell into bed. “I got in last night.”

“I would have sent Gerald to get you from the airport had I known.”

Katrina didn’t offer to come get her herself, which neither surprised nor insulted Rhiannon. Katrina only left the sprawling mansion under very structured circumstances. “I took a car. Don’t worry about it. What are you making? Do you have enough in there to share?”

“You know I always make enough for five. Go on and set the table.” Katrina fussed at the stove while Rhiannon quickly set the small breakfast table with plates and spoons and forks and two glasses of fresh orange juice.

Katrina spooned creamy scrambled eggs and sliced avocados onto their plates. “Thanks.” Rhiannon’s stomach grumbled and she dug in as soon as Katrina sat down.

They ate quietly for a few minutes. Katrina could tell when Rhiannon was too hangry to be a good conversationalist.

Finally, Katrina broke the silence. “Why’d you come home before the conference ended?”

Because I was going crazy looking over my shoulder for Samson. One day of being skittish after the interview was enough.

Next time she tried to blow off some steam with a hookup—jeez, if she ever tried it again—she was going to find some nice boring accountant or truck driver. Someone clearly and explicitly far away from her industry. “Finished. I wasn’t needed at the conference anymore.”

Katrina pursed her lips, which called attention to the faint scar that ran down her cheek. Half Thai American and half white, Katrina had a unique and beautiful face, scars or not. “I thought you were going to stay for the weekend and sightsee. I haven’t been to Austin in ages, but I remember how much fun it was.”

“I don’t need to sightsee, and we can order perfectly fine barbecue from that place downtown.”

Katrina pointed her fork at her. “You haven’t been on vacation since I’ve known you, Rhi. That’s almost eleven years of nothing but work.”

Rhiannon took a sip of her juice. Had it been eleven years already? She supposed so. She and Katrina had met at a party when Katrina was barely twenty-two and Rhiannon was twenty-six, fresh off the success of selling her first start-up. Rhiannon didn’t make friends easily, but something about the other woman’s vulnerability had yanked her right in.