Him and his sexy almost-dick pic. She, who could have given a keynote speech on how much she hated dick pics, had stared at the outline of his penis in his sweatpants for longer than she cared to admit. Guess it mattered who the dick was attached to.
Damn it. She liked him more today than the last time she’d seen him, when they’d had sex. How was that possible?
For all you knew, he was chatting up sweet, kind, loyal Janet when he wasn’t sending you food.
So? He had the right to do that.
Lakshmi sobered. “By the way, I’ve had all my feelers out for the past week. I still can’t get any intel on if that bastard will be there.”
For a second, Rhi thought Lakshmi was talking about Samson, but then she realized Lakshmi didn’t know about the now discarded hashtag BeachBastard. Peter. That was the once and always bastard king. “Oh, he’ll be there. Peter won’t miss a chance to fuck me over.”
Lakshmi uttered a disgusted noise. “I don’t understand how you stayed with him for as long as you did.”
Rhiannon faltered. She might be oversensitive right now, but it was painful to hear that. “He was very, very good.” Peter had been a master manipulator. She’d been like a frog in a pot of water, the temperature on the stove nudged up and up and up by tiny degrees.
It was easy to see danger when someone flung knives at you. Harder when they quietly, subtly poked you full of holes.
“No doubt. I didn’t mean to imply you should have known or anything,” Lakshmi reassured her. “Anyway, we don’t know if he’ll be there. It’s a worst-case scenario.”
“No, he’ll be there. I’m sure of it.” She forced a smile to her lips. “And we’ll beat him.” Yes. Those were the right words to say. Strong, tough words. I’m scared to be face-to-face with my ex for the first time since he ran me out of his company were not strong, tough words.
“Damn straight we will.” Lakshmi tossed her head. The shaved sides of her head were new. A rush of affection filled Rhiannon when she realized the pink and yellow of her hair was a perfect match for Crush’s colors.
She clutched that close to her. She had people in her corner. Lakshmi and Katrina, via her phone.
Samson. Right there in the house.
She wouldn’t be facing Peter alone.
The driver turned off the small local highway to navigate the town’s internal roads, and soon Annabelle’s house came into view. It was a magnificently large mansion with huge windows, nestled in a row of luxury homes. She knew at least one of those houses well, a few doors down. It had been the place she’d rented, where she and Samson had had their night together.
She said her goodbyes with Lakshmi as the driver pulled into the circular driveway. An older man in a suit walked out of the house and up to her vehicle as if he’d been watching for her.
“Welcome,” he said as he opened her door and offered his hand. His voice was low and deep, his cheeks hollowed. “Ms. Hunter?”
“Correct.”
“My name is Logan. I oversee the house here. I will take your bags to your room. Lisa is at the door, she will escort you to the drawing room where the guests are gathering.”
“Am I late?”
“Not at all.” He pronounced it At-Tall. “The itinerary does not have anything on the schedule for the next hour.”
A smiling woman in a Mrs. Potts aproned outfit met her at the door. “Hello, I’m Lisa,” she said warmly. “Would you like me to take your jacket, Ms. Hunter?”
“Call me Rhiannon, and no.” She adjusted the blazer at her wrists in a nervous flick. She’d tried to anticipate what would please and impress Annabelle and had ended up going with a simple black pantsuit. She’d subbed the button-down shirt Lakshmi had picked out for her with a snug white T-shirt. It wasn’t as comfortable as her normal wear, but it would do, especially paired with plain black flats.
The hell she’d wear high heels all day in an unfamiliar environment. Charlie Bucket hadn’t won the factory by teetering around on heels.
The housekeeper gestured to the left. “If you need to freshen up, I can show you to your room first.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She followed Lisa through the winding hallways of the mansion. The walls were crammed with decor, frames touching other frames. Rhiannon’s art education was lacking, but she recognized more than one expensive artist. Those artists were side-by-side with amateur art, mass-produced prints, and even children’s crayon-scribbled drawings. It was as if the owner of the home had slapped up anything that caught her fancy.
It should have been overwhelming, but the eclectic collection combined with the bleached wood floors, expensive worn rugs, and the hint of sea salt in the air was oddly homey.
“Here we go.” Lisa’s cheery smile widened and she gestured to a set of open French doors.
Rhiannon murmured her thanks, which the housekeeper took as her dismissal. Multiple voices spilled out of the drawing room. Tina, she recognized, and two men.
Neither of them were familiar to her. Don’t get too relaxed. It was early yet, she had to be braced for Peter’s presence.
Rhiannon tugged at her blazer and straightened her shoulders, then walked in. She surveyed the three individuals, unable to halt the relief that Peter wasn’t one of them.
Or the disappointment that Samson was missing as well.
Tina spotted her first and split off from the group. “Hello, Rhiannon.”
“Hello.”
“I see you got all the glitter out of your hair.”
Rhiannon fluffed her hair and smiled at the teasing. She liked Tina. “It was a trial, but yes.”
“Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”
Tina led her across the large room to the small group and gestured to a slender, dark-haired young man in his twenties. “This is Rhiannon Hunter, the creator of Crush. Rhiannon, this is—”
“Martin O’Donnell.” Rhiannon nodded at the man.
He grinned, revealing expensive caps. “Have we met?”
“No, but I know of you.” O’Donnell was a vulture, had picked up a couple of smaller regional dating apps recently. If he bought Matchmaker, it would be so he could strip it down, siphon its assets.
On the other end of the spectrum was Chris Hwang, the Asian man in his fifties standing next to Martin. “I know we’ve met.” The lines around Chris’s eyes crinkled, and he inclined his head. British-based, he headed up a powerful conglomerate of apps and sites across Europe. He’d been one of the only people who had reached out to Rhiannon when she’d left Swype, had even offered her a job on his marketing team. She would have seriously considered it, if it hadn’t meant a move to London. She’d been too raw at the time to consider hopping across the pond solely for a job offer from a powerful man, even if that man was as well-respected as Chris. “How are you doing, Rhiannon?”
“Well. Quite well.”
“Rhiannon . . .” Martin tapped his finger over his lip. “Did you used to work at Swype?”
“A long time ago.”
Speculation entered the younger man’s gaze, and Rhiannon knew he must have heard some talk about her. “Uh-huh.”
“Wasn’t that long ago.”