Page 10 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

“You can’t fire me. I’m your friend and your lead developer. You’d be lost without me.”

“Unfortunately, true.”

“Also, you need someone to remind you not to drunk-scroll through Grayson’s tagged photos ever again.”

I pause. “…That happened one time.”

“It was three times.”

I sigh. “Fine. Maybe I’m mildly deranged.”

Sophie grins through the phone. “Mildly deranged and wildly in denial. My favorite combination.”

8

GRAYSON

Margot thinks she’s ahead of me. I know that look in her eyes, the one she gave me when she texted: Hope you’re ready, King.It wasn’t confidence, it was smugness. Which means she’s certain she has the upper hand. That should make me nervous, but instead, it only makes me more determined. The real problem? I can’t stop thinking about her. And maybe that’s because she’s been in my life for longer than I care to admit.

I remember the first time I saw her, standing in my grandfather’s office, looking way too polished for someone so young, her blue eyes sharp with determination as she shook his hand. I had been skeptical. She wasn’t family. She wasn’tme.So why the hell had my grandfather seen so much potential in her? But she proved herself quickly. Margot wasn’t just some wide-eyed protégé trying to earn Arthur King’ approval, she was ruthless, ambitious, and terrifyingly good at what she did. She worked harder than anyone else, stayed later, studied deeper, and absorbed every lesson my grandfather taught her like it was gospel. And the worst part, she didn’t just earn her place atPerfectly Matched, she thrived. From day one, we were rivals.From day one, I knew that Margot Evans wasn’t someone I could ignore.

And now, she’s in my head in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way her lips curl when she smirks at me. And I hate that.

It’s late, and I should be reviewing potential matches for Elliot, but instead, I’m sitting on my couch, staring at my phone, replaying the way Margot looked today. How she walked intoPerfectly Matchedlike she was on a warpath, her blazer tailored to perfection, her hair sleek and shining under the office lights. The way she tapped her manicured nails against her coffee cup, eyes flashing with challenge every time she looked at me. I groan, rubbing a hand over my jaw. This is a problem.

Margot isn’t supposed to bethisdistracting. She’s supposed to be my competitor, the one person in the world I refuse to lose to. And yet, somehow, she’s wormed her way under my skin in a way I can’t ignore. I close my eyes, but it only makes it worse. Now I’m not just seeing her from across the office, I’m picturing her closer. The way her perfume lingers in the air when she walks past, something expensive and subtly floral. The way she tilts her head when she’s about to rip into me, lips parting just slightly before delivering some razor-sharp retort that somehow always makes my blood pump faster and my dick to grow harder.

And that damn suit of hers. Why does she have to look sogoodwhile trying to ruin my life? The way the fabric hugs her waist, the confident sway of her hips when she walks, it’s downright unfair. If Margot were anyone else, I’d have already found a way to get her out of my system. My dick twitches as if he agrees with me. But she’s not just anyone. She’sMargot. I shake my head, exhaling sharply.Get it together, King.

This isn’t a schoolboy crush. It’s a reaction to competition, nothing more. Margot is the only person who’s ever kept up with me, who’s ever matched me step for step, play for play.Of course, I’m fixating on her. It’s the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of going head-to-head with someone who refuses to back down. That’s all this is.

But then I remember the way her lips curled when she smirked at me this morning, and my brain decides to make things worse. I imagine her standing in front of me, close enough that I could reach out and tuck a strand of her sleek brown hair behind her ear, close enough to see the way her pupils dilate when she’s either furious or... something else. I wonder what it would be like to press her against my desk, to watch that sharp, calculated exterior crack just a little. To hear her breath hitch when my fingers graze the bare skin at the base of her neck, to feel the tension shift from challenge to something darker, something neither of us is willing to name.

I imagine the way she’d fight it, because of course she would. Margot never surrenders easily. She’d glare up at me, lips parted, daring me to push her further, to break the control she holds onto so damn tightly. And maybe I would. Maybe I’d let my lips hover just a fraction too close, let my hands skim the curve of her waist, testing her, teasing her, waiting for that inevitable moment when she stops fighting and justlet’s go.

Worse, I imagine her under me, pressed against my office door, her breath hot against my neck as I finally shut her up in the only way that would actually work. The kind of distraction that neither of us would see coming. The kind that would make this war between us evenmessier. My jaw tightens. This is ridiculous.

I grab my glass of scotch off the coffee table, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip, letting the warmth burn its way down my throat, willing the thoughts away. This isn’tthatkind of fantasy. I’m not the guy who gets hung up on someone like Margot, and she sure as hell isn’t the kind of woman who would ever let her guard down for me. No, this isjust residual frustration, tangled up in the heat of competition. I could call someone, one of the girls from the club who always picks up, always ready to help me take the edge off. It would be easy, mechanical. No stakes, no complications. But even as I unlock my phone, scrolling through my contacts, I know it might not work. Because none of them would beher. The only reason my brain is even entertaining these thoughts is because she’s spent the entire day challenging me, pushing me, making sure I know that shewon’tlose.

But damn if I don’t want to see what she’d look like if, just once, she let herselflose control. I run a hand down my face. Nope. Not going there. My phone buzzes, snapping me out of it.

Olivia:Got your match. You’re gonna love this.

I smirk, clicking the attachment. The moment I see the name, I let out a low chuckle. Oh, Margot isreallynot going to like this. I grab my phone and type out a response:Perfect. Set it up.This game just got even more interesting.

9

MARGOT

Iwake up to a text from Olivia:We’re set. This is going to be fun.

I smirk, stretching as I roll onto my side, the soft morning light filtering through my bedroom window. My plan is in motion. Grayson thinks he’s outmaneuvered me, but he has no idea what’s coming. And yet, as I pull the covers off and go to the kitchen for coffee, my thoughts drift where they shouldn’t, to him. To the way he looked yesterday, sleeves rolled up, suit hugging him in a way that was almosttooperfect. To the way his smirk deepened when he knew he was under my skin. To the way his voice dipped when he leaned in too close, murmuring that he loved a challenge. I scowl and shake the thoughts away.Nope. Not happening.

Grayson King is a problem I need to solve, not some...distraction. I take my coffee to the couch, pulling my knees up as I scroll through my emails, forcing myself to focus. But my phone buzzes again, pulling my attention.

Grayson:Ready to lose yet, Evans?

I scoff, typing back immediately:In your dreams, King. I hesitate, then, because I refuse to let him think he’s getting tome… I add:Though I do hope you’ve gotten some sleep. You looked a little... worn out yesterday. My finger hovers over the send button. It’s petty, but it’s alsoGrayson, and if there’s one thing we both enjoy, it’s this game. I hit send, grinning as I sip my coffee. Seconds later, my screen lights up.

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