Page 6 of My Sexy Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 2)
“I seriously cannot believe their parents really named them Wordsworth and Keats. It’s so affected,” I said, as I showed her the picture of the two brothers.
As she studied it closely, I studied her. The gray T-shirt she wore fit her snugly, making her breasts look even more enticing. My eyes drifted to her curves for the thousandth time today, and my mind meandered back to last night and the memory of how soft and wonderful they’d felt in my hands. How she’d grabbed my head and pulled me in close. How her skin smelled so enticing. I shifted in the booth, grateful we were sitting down. Then I returned to the matter at hand because if I lingered on last night, I wouldn’t be able to form coherent sentences.
Fortunately, any discussion of Keats and Wordsworth was a huge boner killer, so I closed the Facebook shot and returned to the unposed images Jess had captured at Rosanna’s Hideout of the three guys toasting.
“Let’s figure this out,” I said.
“Do you think they were all toasting to the photos I took? The Riley and Avery shots that I had just handed over? Your client is a publicity shop. You must know something about how publicists operate. Do you think Jenner’s publicist wanted those shots? The pictures of Riley and Avery haven’t shown up on any of the gossip sites, and it’s been more than four hours since he’s had the pictures.”
She tapped her watch to make her point. It was now five o’clock.
“They’re really not anywhere?”
“I’ve checked everywhere. All the usual suspects,” she said, then rattled off the names of several celebrity sites. “The pictures aren’t anywhere. And they don’t show up on a Google search, either, nor on a Twitter search, so they must not have been posted anywhere. It makes no sense. Why would you spend that kind of jack for photos and not get them out immediately? Those kind of pictures drive an insane amount of traffic to a website.”
“It’s weird,” I said, contemplating the scenarios.
“It’s weird?”
“Yeah. It’s weird.”
“That’s it? It’s weird? That’s your assessment as a private detective?”
“Yeah,” I said firmly. “It is weird. Weird meaning fishy. Suspicious. Not quite what it seems.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. “Exactly! That’s my point. So what do we do?”
“What do you want me to do? Follow Keats? Follow Wordsworth? Follow Jenner?” I asked, offering it as a joke at first, but as soon as the suggestion left my mouth, it seemed Jess and I felt the same way.
Her eyes lit up. “Actually, that’s a brilliant idea.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, barely able to contain a grin.
“I’m like your personal PI now, right, Jess?”
“Personal PI,” she said in a deep TV show announcer voice. “Premiere episode tonight at nine p.m. When our red-hot hero tries to nab a pair of poet brothers.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Red hot?”
Her tongue darted out to lick her lips.
“You do that as if it’s playful, but you look red hot, too.”
The waitress arrived with my chicken sandwich and French fries and Jess’s coffee and fruit cup. “Need anything else?”
“Yes, please. Some actual food for my friend,” I said, eyeing Jess’s plate of rabbit food.
“I’m fine. This is completely fine,” Jess said to the waitress, who turned on her heels and walked away.
I narrowed my eyes at her plate. “I will follow the Chia Brothers with the tiny noses and matching Oxford shirts under one condition.”
“What is that condition?”
“I want you to have one of these French fries,” I said, leaning back against the light blue vinyl of the fifties-style booth. There was a jukebox at the edge of the table, and soda shop music played overhead.
She shook her head, and bit the corner of her lip.
“I can’t,” she whispered and pushed her fork through the melons and pineapple pieces. “You don’t have to follow them.”
This wasn’t the strong, confident woman I’d gotten to know. This was another side of Jess. I sensed it was a side she didn’t show anyone. It was what lurked beneath all that tough-girl armor.
I stripped all teasing from my tone, wanting to reassure her. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to eat any fries. I’ll still check out those guys for you. But you know, Jess, I have to say this. You look fantastic, and you’d look fantastic if you were this big,” I said and held my hands out wide, then brought them closer together. “Or this small. What I mean is, I don’t have a clue about sizes, but you look amazing now, and you’d look amazing if you ate French fries and more ice cream. And you’re just cool, too. And smart. And funny. Even though you totally ride me, and hate me, and think I’m clueless for not knowing celebs. I still think you’re funny and fun to hang out with, so I guess I’m a masochist.”
