Page 11 of Most Eligible
I’m not sure. I’ve never been more unsure, but I force myself to nod. More gently than I mean to, I push him away, his muscles contracting beneath my skin. How is his skin so warm all the time? His jaw flexes at my touch and he steps back, running a hand through his disgustingly perfect hair.
“Did you get lost on your way to the pool party?” he asks.
“I could ask you the same question.”
He raises his eyes to the dark sky—he doesn’t roll them; Rhett Auburn would never roll his eyes—but the sarcasm is unmistakable. “Pretty sure the producers don’t want me there.”
“So this is what, your own personal dick?”
“I mean—”
“DECK,” I practically shout. “Deck.”
He smirks. I hate his smirk. I hate everything about his mouth. Like the fact that right now his lips are working overtime not to pull up into an actual smile. He rubs his jaw and sinks down onto the bench opposite me, arms propped up on the sides just like Roland. “The private pool is collateral damage of the producer credit.”
“You’re a producer?”
He nods, lifting a shoulder half-heartedly. “In name only, but yes.”
“But you still have to live here like you’re at sleepaway camp?”
He scowls. “Everyone lives on the property. It’s just big enough that you’d never notice.”
I can’t tell if it’s a threat—if he’s implying that Lainey herself lives just around the next bend of the mansion’s gallant exterior. Better not risk it. I move to get out of the water, but my wet hair hangs in front of my face. Raising a hand to the soaked tangles, I curse under my breath.
“Did you hit your head?”
“No, I’m fine. Just… fifty dollars of hairspray down the drain.”
He purses his lips like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it.
“What?” If he’s going to rat me out, I should find out sooner rather than later. I step toward him so I’m in the middle of the shallow pool. My eyes wander from his face down to his tattoos. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them, but they look different now, shimmering in the water’s reflection, some hidden beneath its funhouse mirror surface.
“It looks good,” he says, then clears his throat. “Your hair.”
I avert my eyes because looking into his feels dangerous.
“I should get back.”
“And tell them what?” he asks. “You fell in the pool on my dick?”
My mouth drops open and he laughs softly.
“Can’t I just go inside here?” I squint at the sliding door beside the pool.
He shakes his head. “No cameras out here, but once you get inside, they’ll be all over you. Just wait here, then you can go back when you’re ready. The pool party will be over soon.”
“They won’t notice I’m gone?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Depends how long you plan on staying.”
Given that Rhett seems to have spent his past life charting the mansion’s camera blind spots, I’m in no position to argue. The water is cool but just warmer than the air, so I snuggle down like it’s a quilt, crossing my legs under me as I take in the view of the ocean.
“Look,” Rhett says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
My eyes catch on the flower tattooed over his taut chest and my fingertips ignite, the warmth of his skin flaring in my memory.
“Lots of people have one-night stands,” he says. “We can just move on.” He chews his lip, runs a hand through his hair. “If that’s what you want.”
