Page 27 of Most Eligible
“At least buy me a drink first,” I mutter.
“Thought I already did,” he says, zipping my dress back up.
I spin back to face him, searching his face for any trace of embarrassment, of longing for that night. My fingers tingle with the ghost of the frozen margarita he bought me. Sweet on my tongue. Cold in my throat. But he was so warm.
I blink it all away and cross my arms.
“You’ve got quite a sunburn.” He brushes my hair to the side as his fingers murmur across the peeling skin on my neck and chest.
Below us, a door slams and he jerks his hand back. I press against the wall as footsteps echo through the stairwell.
“We should get out of here,” I whisper, but Rhett shakes his head, leaning over the metal railing to look down.
Another door slams and the echo fades into silence.
“Kevin,” Rhett mutters. “Taking a smoke break.”
“Oh no,” I say lightly. “How will we survive for five minutes without a bartender?”
Rhett laughs and shakes his head. “Come on.” He starts up the stairs and I follow, peering over the railing into the pit of the mansion. We climb up two flights to the top of the stairs. Another echoing noise from below makes me jump, and Rhett lays a hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I say as the footsteps below fade away. “I can’t get caught.”
“We won’t.” He reaches up and grabs the bottom of a metal ladder, yanking it down with a clang that echoes around us.
“Shh!” I hiss, flapping my arms like a bird.
Rhett just rolls his eyes, likeI’mthe unreasonable one.
“You’ll want to ditch those.” His grin crashes down my spine like a bolt of lightning.
I open my mouth, which only seems to let the improper thoughts in faster. “My…”
“Your shoes?”
“Right,” I breathe. Not my clothes. I kick my heels off, bare feet sticking on the cool concrete floor.
He does a double take, presumably since I’m only about a half inch shorter than him now. I must have been smaller in his memory. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to comment on my height. But he just says, “Ladies first?” and gestures for me to climb the ladder. “It should be open at the top.”
I look up the ladder, then at him, my mouth hanging open.
“You want me to climb up there?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Kind of?” I hate how unsure I sound. Surely with that fancy producer credit, he knows all about my fear of heights. He’s probably watched all of our introduction videos, knows each of our carefully exploited flaws. He certainly seems to know everything else about me, even if that’s my own fault.
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head a little, as if asking what the hell I’m talking about.
“Didn’t you see my intro video?”
He laugh-grunts. “No.”
“But you’re a producer. I would’ve thought—”
“In name only,” he corrects. “And I’d rather not spend my time watching a hundred identical videos.”
The corners of my mouth turn down. “I thought mine was pretty good. You’re missing out.”
