Page 13 of My Sexy Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 2)
“Skirt,” she said, making a rolling gesture with her hands as if she was supplying me with the missing word.
I shook my head, like a dog shaking off water. “You’re wearing a skirt,” I said. My jaw was possibly still scraping the floor.
“Very good, William. You have excellent sartorial identification skills.” She gestured to me. “You’re wearing jeans and a T-shirt,” she said, as if speaking to a young child. “Now, can you try naming this?” She tugged on the fabric of her tank top.
Recovering the power of speech and the use of brain cells, I stepped inside, shut the door, and set my bag down on the floor. I reached for the shirt, taking the fabric in my hand as I pulled her in close, brushed my lips along her neck, and whispered in her ear. “Something I want to take off.”
She breathed in sharply, and shivered against me. “Tables turned,” she said in a low, sexy purr.
I nibbled on her earlobe then dropped my mouth to her lips, covering her in a kiss that I had no choice but to give. Kissing her was not optional. It was mandatory, and as necessary as air or breath. She tilted her face to me, and I deepened the kiss, my tongue meeting hers, tasting, licking, and touching her with the kind of recklessness that some kisses demand. That’s how I felt—beholden to this kiss as her apartment faded away, as the music from her iPod drifted out the window, because all my senses narrowed to the press of her lips against mine.
Eventually, we came up for air.
“So, I brought bell peppers, chicken, and the most fantastic dessert,” I said quickly, segueing playfully into dinner as if that kiss hadn’t just nailed me right in the heart.
She ran a hand through her bangs, as if she was clearing her head. “Sounds perfect.”
She showed me to the kitchen and I told her I had good news.
“You already started tailing the brothers?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.
I laughed and roped my arms around her waist, kissing her hair as I moved behind her to start emptying the shopping bag. “I know the way to your heart. Rabbit food and clues.”
“I’m easy like that. So tell me stuff,” she said, handing me a skillet, spray oil, a knife, and a cutting board.
“I did some prelim research online. I found where Keats and Wordsworth live, so I’m going to scope them out tomorrow. I also tracked down one vital piece of information already. You know that website for Keats’s agency?”
“Yes.”
“He registered the domain name about three days ago. The site just went up this week, Jess.”
She shivered as if a chill ran through her. “So…”
“I don’t know what to make of it yet, but I think it’s safe to say he’s probably not a legit agency,” I said as I began chopping peppers.
“Crap,” she said, blowing a frustrated stream of air through her lips. “I should have looked into that. I never thought to look into it.”
“Of course not. It all seemed real. He seemed real,” I said, as I pushed the orange bell peppers to the side of the cutting board, moving on to the yellow ones. “The money was real, and he paid you in cash. You’re not the one he’s setting up. As much as it might seem like he’s setting you up, I don’t think you’re who he’s trying to frame.”
“Who are Keats and Wordsworth setting up, then? Riley? That would make me feel so guilty,” she said, dropping her forehead into her palm. “Riley was sweet, and she was happy, and she seemed genuinely eager to have brunch.”
“I don’t know. But listen, I only have one class tomorrow, so I’ll be out bright and early and I’ll follow them and see if I can figure out something.”
As I set aside the chopped peppers and began working on carrots and broccoli, she nodded. “Okay. But I think you should follow Jenner. If they were both having lunch with Jenner, he’s probably the one setting her up.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too. See, great minds think alike,” I said, then scooped up the peppers, carrots, and broccoli onto a separate plate before I tackled sautéing the pre-cut cubes of diced chicken.
We chatted for a bit more about the threesome of sneaky Hollywood players as I cooked.
She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed. “Smells yummy.”
“Why, thank you. I hope you love it,” I said, choosing for once not to make a joke. I truly did want her to be happy with what I served. Not only because food was challenging for her, but because I wanted to impress her. I wanted to impress her in the kitchen, with my conversation, and with my hands, lips, and tongue. As well as other instruments.
