Page 100 of Ruled By Rivalry

“He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to get pressed about what his girlfriend is wearing.”

“Fiancée,” I corrected absentmindedly. “But I just meant his suit. Shouldn’t it be . . . more too?”

Elliot’s lip twitched when he looked at the third mannequin in our corner. “I’m trying to imagine Ryan Quinn in a diamond-studded tie. Or shoes. Or anything else that sparkles, really.” His head shook, like it would shake the amusement off his face, too. “Let’s finish her dress first. Let me worry about Ryan later. We’ll have to see how the archived suit fits him first before we can alter it, anyway.”

I sighed, sank back onto the stool right in front of Daphne’s mannequin, and gestured toward the table. Without hesitation, Elliot brought me the tools I needed for the final stitching. He kneeled beside me, holding them up like the palm of his hand was my personal desk, and I ignored what the gesture did to me.

Working this closely with him might very well be the death of me. I wanted to believe he knew about his grandfather’s decision, but with every passing day, I was less convinced. If he wanted the job, he wouldn’t help me. He’d be out, celebrating his win.

I focused on nothing but my needle, pinpointing the next stitch, then the one after that.

“Could you?” I muttered, squinting, nodding toward a loose edge he needed to hold in place for me to finish.

And he did. Without another word, he knew exactly what I needed from him. I think it might’ve been one of the sexiest things he’d ever done.

I focused on carefully sewing the pieces together, and every bit of my attention was required with a dress as delicate as this. The clear view of his hand wasn’t helping me concentrate, though. The contrast between his strong fingers and the fragile, pale fabric wasn’t either. The images it triggered in my mind were the final blow.

Of that same hand, caressing my face. Those same fingers, between my thighs. Him, on top of me, ready and needy and as desperate as I’d been. Just, unfortunately, with a lot more self-control.

I missed. Poked my own finger with the needle instead of the dress or the mannequin below.

The last time that had happened, I’d picked up a needle for the first time since Mom died. I’d been distracted, all over the place, and thought I might find comfort in something we used to do together. Back then, when I’d poked myself, she’d been there to comfort me. To kiss my finger, tell me it would be alright, then urge me to continue. Once she was gone, no one had kissed my finger, and no one had told me it would be alright.

I had to tell myself—be there for myself the way Mom had always told me to.

There’s one person you can rely on in your life, and that’s you, baby girl.

So, I’d stopped messing around and started showing up for myself.

I hadn’t had a needle in my skin since, which meant I hadn’t expected the blood. It wasn’t a lot. There was no need to panic at all. I knew this, but did Elliot?

He gasped louder than I had, let go of the fabric, gathered both of my hands in his (even the one that wasn’t injured, and even if the injured one wasn’t really injured anyway), and pulled my pointer finger so close to his face that, for a second, I thought he might actually lick the blood off. He didn’t.

“Are you alright?” That was actual concern in his voice. “I told you we should’ve let someone else do the actual stitching.”

“I can do it just fine.” Pulling my hand out of his, I shook my head. “Nothing serious. Just a little blood.” But the concern on his face and in his voice wasn’t wavering. Intensified when I licked the blood away, and a new droplet formed.

“Let me get you—”

“I’m fine.” But he was already up.

“—a Band-Aid.”

I watched him stalk through the long studio toward the first aid kit by the door. Like I was about to bleed out and he only had minutes, if not seconds, to save me before—

“I’m not going to die, you know?”

He shook his head and only said, “You’re bleeding”—like it was explanation enough. A second later, he smacked the kit onto the table, pulled out half the contents looking for a bandage. Questioningly held it toward me.

I cackled. I couldn’t hold it back. “I poked my finger!” I continued laughing. “I didn’t cut it off. A Band-Aid, if you must. You don’t need to bandage it.”

Elliot wasn’t entirely sure about my assessment. His eyes jumped back and forth between the bandage and my injury. Which had stopped bleeding already. With a sigh, he switched to the agreed-upon Band-Aid.

“It could be dirty,” he said in his defense. “The needle. Could infect the wound.”

“The wound?!” I was still grinning. Widely.

His eyes rolled, exasperated and amused and a million other contrary things. Still, the way he wrapped the Band-Aid around my finger was gentle, careful. The way his touch felt against my skin left more of an impact than the needle.