Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(38)

I turned to look at Arya, staring at her dead in the eye, her humiliation radiating from her body in waves. “Retract their claws.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed.

“The one thing cheetahs can’t do that pumas and tigers can is retract their claws. Not all felines were born equal.”

“Correct!” Dr. Italian Stud cried out. “S Team D, you are the winners!”

“No!” Arya stood up, stomping her foot. It was ridiculous, bratty, and—underneath all of this—stupid adorable.

Because it proved she was still the same spoiled little princess I loved to hate.

There was a flurry of excitement. Dr. Stud even shot a confetti gun and called us up to the stage to receive our prize and an unnecessary bro hug. Arsène threw a wad of cash at Elise and retreated into the night without as much as a goodbye, done with the human race for one evening. Riggs moved to a corner of the bar, being pawed by the Girl Squad chicks, who cooed over him. Arya thundered into the restroom, her cheeks flushed, probably to cry into the sink.

A wiser man wouldn’t follow her. Yet here I was, making my way to the unisex restroom. Since going inside with her was deranged, I opted for loitering around and answering emails on my phone until she got out. Still creepy, but not restraining-order worthy. When she stepped out, her face was wet, her shoulders slumped. She stopped midstep when she saw me.

“Are you following me?” she demanded.

“Funny, I was about to ask you the very same thing. This is my hangout spot. There are over twenty-five thousand nightlife establishments citywide. What are the odds of you showing up here for the first time in my life right after news of the trial broke?”

“Pretty good, considering we probably live in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and travel in the same social circles.”

“Got me all figured out?” I stroked my jawline, my eyes skimming her face.

She tilted her chin up. “More or less. Although I will say, you’re a hard man to track, Mr. Miller. Not a whole lot of info available about you on the net.”

My lips twitched. She had bought into my high-flying-millionaire charade. Probably thought we were a part of the same yacht club.

“How far did you get in your research?” I braced an arm over her head, trapping her between me and the restroom wall. She smelled like Arya. Of peachy shampoo mixed with the sweetness of her skin. Of long, lazy summers and spontaneous pool swims and ancient books. Like my impending downfall.

Her eyes met mine. “You finished Harvard Law School. Got pulled straight into the DA’s office. Traurig and Cromwell recruited you after you nailed a huge case even though you were the small fry. Lured you to the white-shoe dark side. Now you’re known as the shark who gets his clients fat settlements.”

“Where’s the mystery, then?” I leaned forward an inch, breathing more of her. “Sounds like I’m an open book. Need my Social Security number and full medical history to complete the picture?”

“Were you born eighteen?” She cocked her head sideways.

“Fortunately for my mother, no.”

“There’s no information about you prior to your time in Harvard.”

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “My accomplishments before eighteen include winning beer pong games and getting lucky in the bed of my truck.”

She eyed me skeptically, her delicate brows furrowing. I spoke before she could ask more questions.

“I’ll give you one thing: you make that bag of trash who sired you look like a real angel in the media.”

“That’s an easy task. He is innocent.” Her lips were inches from mine, but I was in complete control of the situation.

“That’s not for you to decide. If you continue tampering with the narrative before the trial, I’ll be inclined to move for a gag order on the case. The temptation of shutting your mouth up is already too much.”

“Are outspoken women an inconvenience to you?” she purred, her eyes sparkling. It felt so much like our banter from a decade and a half ago that I almost laughed.

“No, but whiny little girls are.”

That made her pull away. She twisted her mouth in annoyance. “Did you come here for anything other than to rub your small, insignificant win in my face?”

Would you rather I rubbed something else in it?

“Yes, actually.” I pushed off the wall, giving her—and myself—some space. “First things first—the Brewtherhood is my domain. My territory. Find a girly cocktail bar that hosts trivia nights. Better yet—read a book or two before you try it next time. Your general knowledge could use a few tweaks.” I used the word she’d used for my media-management skills.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to tell me to go shove my self-importance up my rear in five different languages, but I proceeded before she could cut into my words.

“Second—I think I deserve one piece of information in return for this.” I produced the Denny’s voucher Dr. Douchebag had handed me earlier tonight. Her eyes zinged with exhilaration. I knew she didn’t care for the actual voucher. Only about what it represented. About going home with the prize. This was classic Arya. She would catch my foot when we did laps at the pool, playing dirty sometimes. Anything to win.

“You want a piece of information?” she asked. “You’re insufferable. How’s that for a fun fact? Now hand that over. My employees deserve free Denny’s meals.”