Page 143 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

“Arsenic is odorless, sweetheart,” I tell her. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I grab it and hit ignore before I even see who’s calling. I want to be in this moment.

When she raises her face, she hands me the bag. “You better eat it first, then.”

I grab a hunk of the bread and stuff it in my mouth. I chew and swallow in the most exaggerated fashion possible. “See? Safe as can be.”

“Such a valiant taste-tester,” she says with a flirty purr. That sound thrums through my bones. “My turn.”

I rip off a smaller bite and hand it to her. But she doesn’t open her palm. She steps closer to me so she’s inches away. Then, she opens her mouth, and she looks like heavenly sin.

Those red lips form the loveliest O, and just like I do with some cars, I experience a kind of insta-love. It’s official—my cock is head over fucking heels in love with her gorgeous mouth and thinking all sorts of filthy thoughts about how to fit inside it, the dirty bastard.

Gently, I put the bread in her mouth, my fingertips brushing over her lips.

That slight touch sends electricity straight to my dick, reaffirming his obsession.

She chews seductively, murmuring in delight, then swallows.

How does she fucking do it? She eats sexily.

She walks sexily. She grabs her phone sexily.

She probably puts ketchup on fries like it’s a sensual experience.

Suddenly, I want to watch her do mundane things—wash laundry, open a jar of mustard, unlock her door—and determine if every single thing she does is a turn-on.

I’d file my report with the Man Council, informing them that I’ve indeed discovered the holy grail of sex appeal—Henley Rose Marlowe. No matter how hard I try to pretend she has the face of a groundhog, she defies me simply by being . . . her.

“You were right,” she says softly.

I blink, trying to remember what I was right about. “I was?”

The corners of her lips curve up. “Yes. I feel so peaceful.” She steps closer to me. “All because of the monkey bread.”

Those lips dust my cheek and she whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear.

Her voice is everywhere, sending a sizzling charge across each inch of my skin.

As if I’m buzzed. I’m not really sure where I am right now.

I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or floating, or fantasizing.

This might very well be a mirage, or the world has turned inside out, because Henley is not only being civilized, she’s being intensely flirty. It’s disarming.

That’s when I snap to it.

Disarming. Exactly. She’s the competition. That’s her trick. She probably wants to snag Livvy’s next sports car from under me. She’s Delilah trying to cut off Samson’s hair with her flirty ways. I can’t forget we’re rivals, and monkey bread isn’t a peace treaty; it’s a panacea.

The cold war hasn’t ended.

I back away from her. “Glad you like it. I should go,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk. I’m meeting David a few blocks from here at a bar.

She points at the pavement, too, and blinks as if she’s reconnecting to earth. I furrow my brow, wondering. Did she feel that spark that was more than a spark?

Then I decide it’s high time to check myself into a sanatorium.

Maybe even ask Chase to perform that lobotomy.

I’m not the kind of guy who gets fireworks or butterflies or feels as if his feet don’t touch the ground over a woman.

Any woman. And especially not this dangerous woman who has the same damn clients I have, and who’s hungry for more.

I’m the King of Pleasure, the master of one-night stands.

Fine. I haven’t had one in a few weeks, since well before I ran into Henley at the car show. Who cares?

“I should go, too,” she says softly.

That soft side she’s showing me today is one more reason why I can’t let myself be fooled.

It has to be an act. I take a step in the direction I’m heading.

She does the same. Then another. And one more.

Soon, we’re at the end of the block, waiting to cross the avenue.

“Just heading to a meeting,” I say to fill the awkward silence.

“Same here.”

We cross the street together and walk along the next block.

By the time we arrive at Eighth Avenue, neither one of us utters a word. We both just stare at each other, our eyes saying the same thing— you’ve got to be kidding me.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Heading in the same direction.”

“The spitting definition of irony,” she quips.

As a bus rumbles to a stop when the light turns red, we cross and then we both turn right.

She gives me a side-eyed stare. “You have permission to stop following me now.”

I scoff. “How do I know you’re not following me?”

“As if I’d follow you.”

Then she turns into Thalia’s.

No fucking way.

I groan in annoyance and follow her.

In the doorway, all that sweetness from the monkey bread has evaporated. “Seriously. Enough’s enough,” she says. “I truly appreciate the apology and the sentiment, but we’re all good, and it’s time to move on, Max. I need to focus on my meeting.”

She points to a table in the corner.

“And I need to focus on mine,” I say, gesturing to the same goddamn spot.

David Winters rises, walks over, flashes a big buoyant grin, and says to us, “Join me.”