You started this

POV: TESSA

*Who invited him?*

The thought screamed in my mind. My eyes automatically rolled to the back of my head at the sheer sight of Rhys striding directly toward our table. He walked with the effortless, arrogant grace of a man who owned every room he stepped into. He looked absurdly hot. He wore a tailored black suit that hugged the broad lines of his massive shoulders, the dark fabric shifting smoothly with his every movement. A teasing, rugged hint of blonde stubble shadowed his sharp jawline, giving him a careless edge that immediately made me infuriatingly aware of my own body. My pulse picked up an erratic, traitorous rhythm against my will.

Dexter’s jaw locked. He glared at his brother, explicitly stating under his breath that he hadn't invited him to this lunch. Rhys ignored the hostility. He offered a slick smirk and arrogantly joined our table anyway. He didn't just grab a spare stool at the end. He deliberately bypassed two open spots and slid right into the empty chair located directly across the table from me. The booth was cramped. The moment he settled into the seat, his long, denim-clad legs stretched out and brushed near my bare knees under the dark wood of the table. A sharp spark of heat jumped from the brief point of contact. I jerked my legs back, pressing my calves flat against my chair, but his presence was a suffocating weight settling over my side of the booth.

The moment Rhys got comfortable, Cleo redirected the scattered attention back to the unopened Victoria's Secret box sitting inches from my hands. She clapped her hands together, loudly insisting that I open her gift right then and there.

My stomach twisted into a hard knot. I could feel Rhys’s intense, predatory gaze locked on my face. His eyes missed nothing. I reached out, my fingers stiff, and slowly unwrapped the box as if it contained a live explosive. The crinkle of the tissue paper sounded deafening over the low hum of the restaurant bar. I pulled back the final layer of paper and lifted the fabric.

It was a stunning, sheer black lace lingerie set. The material was weightless, a scandalous arrangement of thin straps, a barely-there bra, and sheer stockings meant to leave zero to the imagination. The moment the dark fabric hit the harsh restaurant light, my eyes inevitably collided with Rhys’s across the table.

A heavy heat bloomed in the air between us. The noise of the busy restaurant seemed to flatline into white noise. I stared into his dark eyes, knowing without a doubt he was picturing me wearing that sheer black lace specifically for him. His gaze dropped to my throat, then down to my chest, stripping me bare right there in the middle of the crowded booth. A fierce blush burned across my cheeks like wildfire. Panic seized my chest. I shoved the delicate lingerie hard back into the box, crushing the tissue paper down on top of it to hide the sheer lace from his consuming stare.

"Thanks, Cleo," I muttered defensively, refusing to look back up at the man sitting across from me. "I love it... though the moths in my closet will definitely get more use out of it than I ever will."

"We all know why," Rhys murmured across the table. His deep voice cut through the ambient chatter, laced with a dark, biting sarcasm that hit me right in the chest.

My hands clenched into fists under the table. I snapped my head up, my eyes flashing with unadulterated fury. "Just because I won’t wear it with you," I retorted, forcing a tight, venomous smile onto my lips, "doesn’t mean I can’t wear it with someone less of a bastard."

The vicious comeback hung suspended over our plates. A series of stifled, uncomfortable laughs broke out from Wyatt and Mila, while Dexter shook his head, staring grimly at the salt shaker. The harsh strike of my words managed to silence Rhys for a brief, satisfying fraction of a second.

However, he didn't stay down for long. He quickly pivoted, effortlessly reasserting his playboy dominance over the environment. Throughout the course of lunch, I watched in disgust as he shifted his focus. When the waitress approached to take his order, he turned on the charm like a faucet. He smoothed his voice into a low, intimate register, holding her gaze with a slick, practiced smile that had the poor woman blushing and stumbling over the daily specials. By the time our plates were cleared, he smoothly pocketed a small slip of paper containing her phone number, tucking it into his suit jacket without breaking conversation with his brother.

I felt nauseated to my core. Watching his easy, cheap playboy routine unfold right in front of my face made my skin crawl. The dishonesty of it, the transactional nature of his charm, rubbed every raw nerve I possessed. I decided to ruin the mood.

I picked up my fork and aggressively tapped the metal prongs against my ceramic plate, demanding the table's attention. I looked directly at the center of the table and cited a sobering, mood-killing statistic. "Did you guys know that more than a million new cases of four sexually transmitted infections are contracted every day?"

The table froze. The casual conversation died an instant, brutal death. Cleo paused with her glass halfway to her mouth. Wyatt coughed into his napkin. They stared at me in profound surprise, bewildered by the sudden clinical pivot.

Rhys didn't miss a single beat. He slowly leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. His eyes locked onto mine, gleaming with a wicked, calculated challenge. "So that’s why single scientists don’t have sex," he stated smoothly, letting the words roll off his tongue with deliberate provocation.

"And we stay healthy," I shot right back, gripping my fork and pointing it directly at the center of his chest like a weapon.

"That probably explains the bad mood too," he countered effortlessly, striking a direct hit to my pride. A smug, victorious curve lifted the corner of his mouth.

The rest of the torturous lunch dragged by in a haze of strained small talk and heavy side-glances. When we finally paid the bill and stepped out of the restaurant, Mila and Wyatt rushed off to their car, while Cleo and Dexter walked the opposite way down the block. I stood alone on the busy New York sidewalk, crossing my arms over my chest, impatiently waiting for an available cab to pass by.

Suddenly, the deep, provocative vibration of his voice sounded right behind my right ear. "What happened to ‘there won’t be any conflict from my side?’" Rhys murmured.

I jumped, my breath catching in my throat. I hadn't even heard his footsteps over the blare of traffic. He was standing far too close, his tall frame blocking the wind sweeping off the avenue. The subtle scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the crisp city air, wrapping around me in an invisible snare.

I stiffened my spine, refusing to turn around fully and give him the satisfaction of my full attention. "I think I’ve been polite enough to you," I countered coldly, keeping my eyes fixed on the yellow taxis blurring past the intersection.

"In which part?" he chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating in his chest. "When you called me a bastard or when you hinted I might have an STI?"

I whipped around, glaring up at his imposing height. "Every action has a reaction," I told him firmly, refusing to back down an inch. "Or do you think insinuating that I don’t have sex and that I’m in a bad mood is a kind of kindness?"

Instead of backing off, Rhys took a deliberate step forward, walking directly into my personal space. The sheer size of him boxed me in against the curb. An irritating, dangerous smirk played on his lips, stripping away the playful banter from the restaurant. The air between us cracked with sudden, sharp hostility.

"I was taking it easy on you, baby, but I’ve decided I won’t anymore because you’re being a bitch," he said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying purr that scraped down my spine.

I gasped, deeply offended by the blunt insult. Heat flooded my face, anger overriding my common sense. I jabbed a finger hard against the solid muscle of his chest. "I’m just tired of guys like you," I snapped, my voice rising over the noise of the traffic. "Guys who think all women are just sex toys. Just pretend I don’t exist."

Rhys’s eyes darkened instantly, the teasing glint vanishing into a cold, hard stare. He didn't flinch away from my finger. "That’s not going to happen. You started this."

"I didn’t start anything, and what the hell does that mean?" I demanded, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"That you have an ass too incredible to pretend it doesn’t exist. See you around, crazy scientist," he said bluntly. He didn't try to hide his actions. He let his dark eyes drag slowly, deliberately down the line of my body, lingering brazenly on my curves one last time. Then, without waiting for my reaction, he casually turned his back and stepped off the curb, crossing the busy New York street with a long, unhurried stride.

I stood frozen on the pavement, reeling. My mouth hung open in shock. Did he actually just say that? I felt a frantic urge to scream, to throw my purse at the back of his arrogant head, but my feet felt glued to the concrete. I questioned my own sanity as I watched his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd of pedestrians on the opposite sidewalk.

As the initial shock faded, the burning anger settled into a cold, familiar ache. I hardened my heart. I knew his exact type. He was the kind of dishonest, smooth-talking bastard who used women for physical pleasure, fed them empty charm, and discarded them like trash the second he got bored. He was exactly like the man who had broken my heart. The man who had wasted seven months of my life a year ago while hiding his true intentions behind a charming smile. I had poured my effort into that relationship, opening up like a fool, only to realize I was nothing but a placeholder to satisfy his needs. The memory of that betrayal still burned in my chest. I wasn't going to let another man treat me like a convenient option. I wasn't going to be a playboy's temporary toy.

By Friday evening, the lingering tension from our sidewalk confrontation had morphed into a quiet, simmering dread. The group gathered at Mila and Wyatt’s apartment for drinks and a casual game of truth or dare to unwind after the long workweek. Rhys was present, lounging on the edge of the oversized living room sofa with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

I spent the evening bracing my nervous system. I sat rigidly on the carpet, keeping track of his movements, mentally preparing myself for his manipulative mind games. I knew he was going to target me. I knew he was going to try to embarrass me in front of our friends to punish me for brushing him off.

But despite my defensive walls, I was unprepared for the explicit shock of the question that left his mouth when the rotation landed on his turn to ask me.

The chatter in the living room lulled. Rhys shifted on the sofa, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The playboy charm vanished. His dark eyes locked onto mine, pinning me to the floor. He asked the question with a deadpan seriousness, as if inquiring whether I preferred coffee or tea:

"Vanilla sex or wild sex?"