Page 4 of Mister Rival

“My high school reunion?”

“Uh, huh, and don’t say it like that. You have to go. If not for me, for that ex-husband of yours so he can see exactly what he’s missing out on.”

Seeing Gareth again for any amount of time sends a pain between my eyes. I haven’t seen him for months. We share custody of our daughter, Clementine, but now that she’s fifteen, she’s fairly independent and divides her time between the two houses. My divorce was difficult and me and my cheating ex aren’t exactly the best of friends, but we keep it together in front of Clementine. He was having an affair with the receptionist in his physical therapy practice for God knows how long before I found out. He was the guy I married from my hometown back in Palm Springs, which only reiterates my point about keeping my distance from Tristan fucking Lucas.

“I’m sure Gareth doesn’t give a shit what he’s missing out on,” I sigh. “And going to my high school reunion sounds like the last thing on earth I would ever want to subject myself to.”

“Don’t be a grump.” Lexi starts to tap again on her iPad. “I’ll book your hair and makeup and find a nice hotel, think of it like a weekend getaway.”

“You do realize that Tristan Lucas will be there.” I don’t know why I insist on using both of his names. “We all went to school together.”

I don’t know what possesses my assistant to waggle her eyebrows suggestively when she says, “Ooh, a dirty weekend withLover Boy?”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth for the second time this morning.” I wave my hand at her. “Don’t you have work to do?” I just want to forget all about this stupid reunion idea.

I’m not going. I’m proud of my achievements and all that I’ve accomplished, but I have nothing to prove to any of those people. Least of all Gareth and that fuckface lunatic Tristan. He can rot in Hell for all I care. They both can.

Chapter Three

TRISTAN

I run a hand through my hair. It’s a well-kept, short back and sides style, the salt ’n pepper hue has become more like a trademark these days. They say stress sends you gray, and I can attest to that. The movement from my hand tousles the styled top, which is gelled into place, or so I thought.

Fucking Alison Archer…

Her pert little undertone and her bossy top notes probably get their way with every deal she does in town and every demand she makes — but not with me. No siree. I chuckle at her indignation about my very implausible excuse about getting a spray tan, rather than sign off on the joint deal. I can be such an ass. Let’s face it, I didn’t get this far being a nice guy all the time.

She thought I was serious. That just goes to show we’re on completely different playing fields, and we don’t get each other at all. Or maybe, just maybe, I like toying with her a little too much.

She’s pretty easily riled, I know that much, and I get some kind of sick satisfaction when she’s flustered. Even if she hides it well.

I’m sure my snappy one liners pushed more than a few buttons in that pretty little head of hers today. She was seething.I can imagine steam coming out of her ears, and curse words flying out of her mouth the minute she hung up on me; to be a fly on the wall in that moment…

You sound flustered, Ali. Are you sure you’re not imagining putting me to bed?

Who in the ever-living fuck do I think I am?

I mean, putting her to bed isn’t above me. I’d wear that badge with honor. I’m completely aware of how smoking hot Ali is, despite her attitude, and I’ve always wondered what she’d be like in the sack. Would she be as feral as she is in real estate? Or would she let a man take the lead? I chuckle to myself, wondering if she ever lets her hair down. She’s so serious all the time.

A roll in the hay could be good for both of us. It may even just help her loosen up a bit.

I shuffle in my seat at the thought. A man would have to be seriously delusional to take that woman on. No one is denying she isn’t beautiful, but she’s not a woman to be crossed.

And I cross it every damned time we come into contact, and that’s been more frequent recently.

The sounds of Mason, my personal assistant, crashing through the door, knocks me out of that very thought in an instant. It’s probably for the best, no need to venture that far down the rabbit hole.

I know it’s Mason before I even look up; he causes a ruckus wherever he goes. Usually because he’s going a million miles an hour, has his cell attached to his ear, or a stack of paperwork under his arm ready for my approval. And he insists on running everywhere. Why he can’t just walk like a normal person is beyond me. As I pique an eyebrow at the intrusion, I see the latter is true; Mason and a huge pile of paperwork are here to greet me. Great.

“What did you do this time to Alison Archer?” he questions, standing in the doorway with his indignant undertone and roll of his eyes.

I pick up my now lukewarm cup of coffee, swirling it around before lifting it to my mouth and throwing the rich elixir down my throat in one big gulp. It may be the only chance I get today to enjoy it. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me, boss. I just had her assistant on the phone about the Anderson deal.”

“Good news travels fast,” I muse, sitting up in my chair and rubbing my hands together. I’m pleased it’s caused a ruckus so soon. I’m a sick fuck at times.

“And?” he prompts.

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