The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(49)

She jerked to a stop when Katrina stepped in front of her and put her hands on her shoulders. “Stop. Take a deep breath.”

“This isn’t a fucking panic attack,” Rhiannon snapped, and then flinched at her own thoughtlessness. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I—”

“Stop,” Katrina repeated again, slower this time. She pressed her hand on Rhiannon’s collarbone. “Take a deep breath.”

Rhiannon complied, more out of regret than an actual belief it would help. Sure enough, her heart continued to pound. Sweat had popped out at her hairline. “Katrina, he can’t win. He can’t—”

“Name three things you see.”

She almost whimpered. This was stupid, and a waste of time.

But she’d already minimized Katrina’s issues once, and she owed it to her to listen. “Your eyes.”

“What color are they?”

“Brown. Medium brown.”

“Name two more things you see.”

“The orange marigolds you planted in the window boxes.”

“One more.”

She blinked, the better to clear her vision, which had narrowed and blurred. “The city. A sliver of the ocean.”

“Now name two things you can hear.”

“The birds calling to each other. The wind chimes on the tree over there.”

“Name one thing you can smell.”

She inhaled and exhaled deeply. “The roses.”

“Good. Good girl. Can you think a little clearer now?”

Rhiannon blinked back the tears in her eyes. She could think clearer, but that meant the panic and anger had receded and she could taste loss and defeat. She didn’t know if that was better or worse. “He can’t win.”

“Even if Peter does buy Matchmaker, Rhi, that doesn’t mean he’s won. You’re a better businessperson than him. You’ll trump him, one way or another.”

Rhiannon worked her jaw. No, Katrina didn’t understand. She couldn’t let Peter win at anything, or even think he’d won at anything.

The best revenge is success.

If she couldn’t get success? Then what? What did she have?

“I have to . . . I have to do something.” She walked to the table and picked up her phone, sending a quick text.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t cozy up to William.” Especially now that it was confirmed that Peter and he were chums. There was no way William hadn’t been given an earful about how evil she was. “But he’s not the majority shareholder of the company anyway. I have to get ahold of Annabelle.” She grabbed her laptop. “I’m going to go down to the office.”

“To the office, or to see Samson?” Katrina asked astutely.

Hopefully the latter, but Samson needed to text her back to confirm that. In the meantime, she’d start driving down to L.A. She grunted.

“Rhi, be—”

“Careful. I know. I will be, I promise. I . . . I can’t let Peter have this. If anyone buys Matchmaker, it has to be me.”

Katrina was quiet for a second and then nodded. “Okay. Go. Let me know what you need from me.”

This. This acceptance calmed her down more than breathing exercises ever could. “I will.” She reached out and squeezed Katrina’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you updated.”

If there was anything to update. Worry and fear had her walking at a fast clip, and she kept glancing at her silent phone. She’d been so preoccupied with this little project with Samson and their canoodling, she couldn’t believe she’d taken her eye off the prize, the prize she’d already gone to great lengths to attempt to secure. She couldn’t lose this.

Not to him.





Chapter Fourteen


SAMSON’S PHONE vibrated in his pocket, and he almost reached for it, a Pavlovian response he had to consciously beat back. He’d never been tied to his cell as much as he had for the past couple weeks. The hit of dopamine to his brain every time it was Rhi on the other end of the line had become addictive.

This time, though, his hands were full, so he did his best to ignore it, even when it buzzed a second time. He’d check it after lunch.

Samson kept a gentle hold of Miley’s fists while she stood and balanced on his thighs, her tiny feet encased in trendy white sneakers that matched her dad’s. She beamed at him, her fat cheeks creasing, and took a wobbly step.

“. . . anyway, that’s why sometimes it’s that greenish-brown color.” Dean looked at Samson expectantly.

Oh, thank God. His friend was done. “I never knew there was so much variation in baby poops,” Samson managed to say. Miley babbled, as if to agree, and plopped down like her legs had gone suddenly boneless. Samson grasped her around her waist and secured her. A few visits with his goddaughter, and he was feeling ten times more at ease with her size. Infants were like a ball of cheeks and rolls held together with drool, but they were surprisingly sturdy.

Dean paused with his water glass halfway to his mouth. “Oh no. I did it again, didn’t I? I overdadded.”

Yes. “Not at all.”

“You’re being too nice to me. Harris would have stopped me the second I started talking about diapers.”

“No, I don’t—” Samson rethought that. “Yeah, he would have. To be fair, I probably should have.”