Page 52 of Most Eligible
I step forward, taking in the pink-tinged rectangle of light framed by the sliding doors. In the center, Rhett sits with his back to me, on the edge of his private hot tub. He’s holding his guitar and humming quietly to himself. The tan skin of his back stretches miles between his shoulders, the valley of his spine curving down into his waistband.
I stand, transfixed, watching him strum the guitar, arms moving ever so slightly as he plays. I step forward so I can hear what he’s singing, and make out a few words: “Sometimes, it’s a hard time, being new.” A melancholy tone, full of longing.
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper. The words are out before I can stop myself, and I brace for his surprise. Or shock. Or even anger. But he just turns around and stares at me, brows raised in typical Rhett fashion.
“So that was your underwear?”
“Um, yeah,” I mutter. “Sorry… I dropped them when I was crawling under your bed.” What a ridiculous statement. “I…” I hesitate, wanting to explain myself. “I came to talk to you.”
Still twisted around his guitar, he frowns. “I’m glad you’re okay. I—if I’d known what Lainey had planned, I’d never have let you out of my sight.”
“Please,” I say, putting on a brave face. “You think being pushed off a ladder can get me down? I’m made of stronger stuff.” I walk out onto the patio. The first landing of the deck hasjust the hot tub, but farther out, down a few steps, is the pool I fell into on the first night. Beyond that: the ocean, choppy from the storm. But the body of water closest to me, the man sitting on the edge—it’s the most dangerous by far.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. I meet his eyes and he stares back, x-raying me. Part of me wants to split in half and let him sew me back together. But the stronger part nods and pulls on a tight smile.
“I can’t believe Lainey would do something like that,” I say, hoping he can’t tell I’m fishing for information.
“She’s done worse,” he says simply, resting his fingers on the strings of his guitar.
The sun is starting to set, peach and pink and the receding purple storm striping the horizon. If the sky were music, it would be a summertime melody, sad and happy all at once, not unlike the song Rhett was just singing.
“Want to get in?” he asks.
I bite my lip, looking to the left, where the long hedge rises, separating Rhett’s space from the naked pool party happening on the other side. “What if someone sees?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Power’s off. No cameras over here anyway.”
“I—I don’t have a swimsuit.”
Instead of responding with words like a mature adult, he looks pointedly at his own underwear. When he raises his eyes back to me, I blush and humph, stalking back inside to grab the thong I chose to avoid underwear lines on camera. Since I didn’t wear a bra, I pull my top (which barely covers my stomach) over my taped nipples, then walk back outside and step into the hot tub. Rhett’s eyes rise to the thin waistband cutting across my hips, the lace arrowing between my thighs, and his jaw ticks as he looks back down at the guitar resting on his lap.
As I sink into the water across from him, I sink back into thatnight. My eyes trace over the tattoo winding around his arm, the minimalist black lines inking tall peaks, carving mountains out of muscle.
“The Smokies,” he says, catching me looking. Last year, I never asked. My cheeks heat and I look away, but I’m right at eye level with his crotch, so I blush again. He hooks a smile and sets the guitar down on the pavement beside him, moving his arms so I can see the tattoos on his stomach and chest. A large jumble of lines stretching over his chest and down almost to his navel.
I imagine following the lines with the tip of my finger, balanced between holding back and tipping headfirst into oblivion. I sink deeper into the water, letting it fill me to my neck, as my eyes wander over his skin. A large flower covers the left side of his chest, stem extending to his stomach. Ringing the flower is a state outline. It’s haunted me for long enough that I know it’s Tennessee.
“You ever been?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ve been to Nashville.”
“I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but we’re going next week.”
“We’re going to Nashville? All of us?” Just when the Malibu mansion was starting to feel safe, they’re going to rip the ground right out from under our feet.
He nods in response, running a hand over his jaw. “When I promised I’d take you sometime, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
Going with him, Roland, and a plethora of other women isn’t what I had in mind either. I pick my nail, thinking of something to say that isn’tthat. My eyes flick to his wrist, to a small tattoo of a guitar that I don’t remember. He catches me looking and holds his arm out. I take his wrist in my hands.
“When…” I trail off.
“Last year,” he breathes. His pulse beats hot in his wrist andsurges through my body, making me warm in places that have nothing to do with the hot tub.
“You know when.” His voice is so quiet that it melts into the water right along with me.
After us. After me.
“It’s…” He trails off, the pencil line between his brows more evident than ever. “It’s a reminder, I—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Last year, I was in a bad spot. I lost sight of what I came to Nashville, then LA, to do. Music.”
