The Rivals

When I opened them, the last thirty minutes or so really hit me.

Holy crap. What the hell did I just do?

Chapter 3

* * *

Sophia

I’d totally screwed up.

And I needed to fix it. Fast.

Before anyone else found out, and before I put what I was here to do in any sort of jeopardy.

Weston walked into the conference room the next morning at exactly eight forty-five. Our meeting was to start at nine o’clock. He grinned like a Cheshire cat upon finding me already inside.

“Good morning,” he said. “Beautiful day today.”

I took a deep breath. “Sit.”

He thumbed toward the door. “Should I lock it? Or do you want to keep things a little on edge—chance getting caught? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Someone walking in while your skirt was hiked up and my—”

I cut him off. “Shut the hell up and sit down, Lockwood!”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

The jerk thought we were role-playing. But I was anything but playing. As far as I was concerned, my job was on the line. I waited until he sat and then took the seat across from him on the opposite side of the conference table.

Folding my hands, I said, “Last night never happened.”

A smug smile spread across his annoyingly handsome face. “Oh, but it did.”

“Let me rephrase. We’re going to pretend like nothing happened.”

“Why would I do that when I can close my eyes at any time and relive the moment?” He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. “Oh yeah, this is one I plan to watch over and over again. That sound you made when you came all over my cock? I couldn’t forget if I tried.”

“Lockwood!” I barked.

His eyes flashed open.

I got up from my chair and leaned over the table. It was a big table, so I couldn’t exactly reach him, but it made it easier to keep him focused.

“Listen to me. Last night was a mistake—one the size of Texas. It should never have happened. Aside from how much I dislike you, and how much my family and your family loathe each other, I’m here to do a job. And my job is very important to me. So I can’t have you lurking around, making inappropriate comments for the staff to overhear.”

Weston didn’t break eye contact, but I could see the wheels in his thick head spinning. He rubbed his thumb against his lip and sat up in his chair. “Okay. We can pretend last night never happened.”

I squinted. That was way too easy. “What’s the catch?”

“Why do you think there’s a catch?”

“Because you’re a Lockwood, and a narcissistic asshole who thinks women are toys put on this earth for you to play with. So what’s the catch?”

He adjusted the knot of his tie. “I have three conditions.”

I shook my head. “Of course you do.”

He held up his pointer. “Number one. I want you to call me Weston, not Lockwood.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. Why does it matter what the hell I call you?”

“It’s what everyone calls my father.”

“So?”

“If you’d prefer, you can call me Mr. Lockwood. I might actually enjoy hearing you call me that more.” He shook his head. “But not Lockwood. It’s confusing to the staff.”

I guess he sort of had a point. Though there had to be more to it than that. Weston wasn’t about to waste one of his three genie rubs to appease employees, that was for damn sure. But I could live with the request.

“Fine. What else?”

Weston lifted a hand and cupped it around his ear. “What else, what?”

I shook my head. “You said you had three conditions. What are the other two?”

He tsked. “You were missing something at the end of your sentence. You said, ‘Fine. What else?’ But what you should’ve said was, ‘Fine, what else, Weston?’”

Ugh. It had sounded like such an easy thing to do. It wasn’t like I always called him Lockwood; sometimes I used asshole. So it should be easy enough. Hell, I should be able call the asshole Your Highness and not flinch, yet calling him Weston now after he’d told me to just felt obedient.

“Fine,” I gritted out between my teeth.

Again he cupped his hand to his ear. “Fine…what?”

“Fine, Weston,” I said with my jaw clenched.

He flaunted a gloating smile. “That’s it. Good job, Fifi.”

I squinted. “I have to call you Weston, and you’re going to continue to call me Fifi?”

Ignoring me, he folded his hands on the table. “Number two. You’ll wear your hair up at least twice a week.”

“What??” I scoffed. “You’re insane.” Then I remembered last night he’d tried to get me to agree to a bet where I’d wear my hair up if he could give me two orgasms. I’d kicked him out after one, though. “Why do you give a shit how I wear my hair?”

He neatened a few files stacked on the table in front of him. “Do we have an agreement on number two or not?”