The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(70)

“I have no issues with it,” Peter said, his smirk annoying. “I’m very fit.”

Samson stirred. “As am I. But I also tweaked my back last week, so I’ll probably be taking a rest tomorrow, if anyone wants to join me on a lounge chair on the deck out back.” His gaze flitted over Rhi’s bowed head.

Aunt Belle beamed approvingly at him. “Yes, son, listen to your body. Anyway, before you leave tomorrow, you’ll know whether I wish to pursue a business relationship with you.”

“Is that the . . . rose garden ceremony?” Rhi asked.

“Yes. Correct.” Aunt Belle’s curls bobbled when she nodded. “It’s a lovely environment and will make bad news easier to digest.”

Rhi tucked the card back into the envelope and brushed the glitter on the table into a neat pile. “This is quite an experience.”

“This is bullshit,” Martin said flatly and came to his feet. He tossed his napkin on top of his uneaten syllabub. “I don’t need to play games to scoop up a slowly dying company. I’ll snag Matchmaker for pennies when it goes under. The rest of you can’t possibly want to put up with this either, right?”

No one else moved, and Martin rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. See you all at the next conference, suckers.” He stomped more than walked out, and Samson half rose from his seat. He didn’t quite trust the man-child to not tip over a vase or something on his way out the door in his annoyance, but Annabelle waved him back down.

Probably for the best. He wasn’t the type to needlessly fight, but in his current void of an emotional state, he wasn’t fully in control of how he might respond to a spoiled rich guy.

“Well,” his aunt said with a secret smile. “That makes my decision easier, eh?”

Peter tossed his longish hair. “Martin has always been impatient. Good things come to those who wait.”

“Oh, certainly.” Belle steepled her fingers under her chin. “So now, I suppose . . . there were three. May the games begin.”





Chapter Twenty-Two


ONE OF my greatest fears is the dark.

What a fucking lying sack of shit. She should have blown up his yacht when she had the fucking chance.

Forget Peter. You can’t murder him. It’s an isolated house party, you’ll be the first one they arrest.

She took a deep breath, then let it out. The best revenge is success. The best revenge is success.

She curled her legs up under her in the armchair and struggled to focus on the last few questions of this stupid questionnaire. In the beginning, she’d tried to answer the questions as she thought Annabelle might want her to but had quickly realized that a lot of the hundred points in the hundred-point questionnaire were the same questions masterfully reworded, making it difficult to game the system.

She clicked the last button with a satisfied sigh and tossed the tablet onto the side table. The room she’d been given, while not lavish, was decorated expensively, in soothing ocean blues and greens. The walls here, too, were groaning with the weight of multiple frames, but these were all photographs of the ocean.

Rhiannon switched one screen for another and pulled out her phone. There were texts from Katrina and Lakshmi, but none from Samson.

That was fine. Absolutely fine. Totally fine.

She scrolled up through her texts, to confirm that he’d sent her that kissy face and the silly photo of his hand earlier today. There could be a good reason for his coolness and distance since she’d arrived. Perhaps he was self-conscious, here in his aunt’s house. She wanted to keep their relationship, temporary or not, low-key too.

He could have texted her, though.

Running hot and cold is a red flag.

Catch and release was the name of that game. Lure someone in, then as they were getting comfortable, toss them aside because the thrill was gone.

He played you once. This is why you don’t trust a ghoster.

No, no. She wasn’t going to torture herself like this, with her brain running through every possible scenario of bad dating behavior. She’d shoot him a message and ask him if everything was okay.

Even if she had been the last one to message, leaving her committing the cardinal sin of the double text.

Before she could type anything, though, a knock came on the door. She launched out of the chair. It was a sign of how much she hoped it was Samson on the other side that she didn’t first check to see who was knocking—to her regret.

She opened the door and took a step back in surprise. A tactical error. That was all it took for Peter to muscle his way into her room, closing the door behind him so fast she didn’t have a chance to stop him.

Fucker.

Show no weakness. She lifted her chin. “What do you want?”

He spread his hands out. She’d once thought those hands were sensitive, the fingers long and slender, like a pianist, but they were a predator’s hands. “We haven’t had any time together, alone, in so long. I thought we could talk.”

“Have your assistant call mine.”

“Very funny.” He leaned back against her own door and perused her. She was abruptly very aware that she’d taken her blazer off. Her T-shirt didn’t cover her arms, and she couldn’t even cross them and hug herself in front of him. That wasn’t a power move.

He met her gaze. “Look at us, both competing for the same company. Isn’t that funny?”