The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(59)

He hung up and grabbed his now cold coffee. It tasted like ashes in his mouth, and he knew that wasn’t because it was cold.

He didn’t want to go on another date with another woman from Matchmaker. He wanted to see Rhi. In bed, in her car, on a rooftop. She was his Green Eggs and Ham, he’d take her anywhere.

He really did need to get up and shower now, but instead, he killed some time scrolling through the news headlines. Finally, his fingers tapped their way over to what he really wanted to do and opened his messages with Rhi.

He wouldn’t tell her Annabelle was going to meet with her. But he could calm some of her anxiety. Also, he’d slept with her yesterday, and temporary or casual or whatever, he didn’t feel comfortable not texting her today.

Spoke with Annabelle, and she’s thinking about it. No promises or guarantees yet. Don’t worry, she’s only heard good things about you.

He stared at that. There. That was practical and businesslike and he didn’t have to say anything more. Nothing that would betray Annabelle. Nothing that was too personal, nothing about the mind-blowing sex they’d had, nothing about how his sheets still smelled like her, and nothing about how he’d pressed his pillow against his nose last night to capture the scent of her body.

That would all be too much.

He hit send and put the phone down. Then he snatched it back up when it dinged immediately.

Thank you.

He swept his thumb over the words. Also stilted and formal. Colleagues. Not lovers.

He scowled. Scratched his belly. Finally, he typed, unable to help himself.

Yesterday was amazing. Let me know when you want to meet up again.

There. She could take that however she wanted. Meet up could mean sex, or it could mean their final, contractually obligated videotaped thing.

Business or pleasure. Her choice.

Of course, when his phone remained silent—at least when it came to texts from her—for the rest of the weekend, he realized he’d played himself.

Because she could easily choose neither.





Chapter Seventeen


RHIANNON STAYED in L.A. for the weekend rather than traveling back up to Katrina’s home. Partially because she wanted to bury herself in work and partially because she was still feeling low-key ashamed for her meltdown in front of her best friend, though she knew Katrina would never judge her.

She didn’t want to dissect her feelings about Matchmaker or Samson or Peter. She wanted to work.

An impossible task. She tried hiding her phone so she wouldn’t check every two minutes for updates from Samson. When she did cave and grab it, she found herself staring at Samson’s last text to her like an infatuated teenager.

Yesterday was amazing. Let me know when you want to meet up again.

What the fuck did that mean? Meet for what? Did the fact that he’d used a period convey something extra serious? Serious as in business serious or serious as in personal serious? Why was there no flirty emoji? Had he texted the mysterious Janet? Had he used a period and a flirty emoji in his text to her?

Gah.

Monday morning brought with it a host of issues to deal with, and given that they were on the West Coast, Rhiannon started her day playing catch-up with New York. There was a reason Peter had moved Swype to Manhattan and it wasn’t only because, as Katrina had hypothesized, his soul was too dark for the California sunlight.

So, yeah, she had a ton of shit to do, and she ought to be obsessing over whether Peter was slithering in to take over Matchmaker while she waited around for Annabelle. But here she was analyzing Samson’s lack of flirty emojis to death.

A knock came on her office door and she dropped the phone on her desk in a clatter. Hopefully, she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. “Yes?”

Lakshmi stuck her head in. “Um, can you come out here for a second? Something was delivered for you.”

Rhiannon didn’t like that odd, suppressed glee in her friend’s voice. She warily got to her feet. “Is it April Fool’s?”

“No. Come out here.”

Rhiannon followed Lakshmi out of her office. The problem with open layout was that everyone could see everything. About twenty or so of her employees were gathered around, with the others craning their necks from their desks.

The attraction was a giant cake sitting in the middle of the floor. Actually, giant was probably an understatement. At least five feet tall, six layers, it was made of Styrofoam, decorated in purple and pink and white, with fat flowers on top.

The small, youngish blonde standing next to it was familiar, but as unexpected as the cake. She stepped forward. “Ms. Hunter.”

Rhiannon slowly accepted her hand. “Tina, right?”

“Yes.” Her smile was rueful. “I am so sorry for this disruption. I told Annabelle you wouldn’t love it, but I couldn’t talk her out of the idea. I figured I would come with, to minimize any trauma.”

“I’m fine with some disruptions but . . . wait, did you say trauma?” Rhiannon looked around but her employees were no help. Though at least half of them had their phones out and up. “What is this?”

Tina bit her lower lip. “It’s an invitation.”

Rhiannon took a step closer to the cake. She leaned forward to read what was on top. “An invitation to—”

She staggered back when the cake exploded. “Surprise,” shouted the well-built man in tight leather pants who now stood in place of the cake. He tossed something in Rhiannon’s direction, and she recoiled at the puff of glitter.