I spin on my heel to head the opposite direction from her, but she’s rushing after me, grabbing my arm before I get too far. “Wait! Archer!”
“What?” I growl, spinning back toward her.
“There was something between us last night. You know there was.”
“So? There was something between me and my bacon this morning, too. But it’s gone now, just like you were when I woke up this morning. I’ll get over it.” I tear my arm from her grasp and walk away, and rather than finding a nice empty chair here at the pool, I decide to just head the fuck back up to my room where I can sit and seethe in privacy without having to worry that someone is going to take advantage of my status to go viral.
What a fucking disaster.
My first one-night stand. Boy, I sure do know how to pick them.
CHAPTER 11: Millie Monroe
So Fake
My chest aches as I glance around. Some people are looking at us, or at least it feels that way, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone recognized him. He was wearing a hat and sunglasses, and it’s not like he has any distinct tattoos that would set him apart from any other guy here with washboard abs and the face of a god.
I don’t think anyone knows I just got put in my place by an all-star pro baseball player apparently here to lay low after his suspension that I pretended to play dumb about.
What a disappointment. I felt some strong feelings for that man, but now he hates me, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
I feel sad. Too sad to sit out here with people staring at me like some sort of lunatic.
I just want to gather up my belongings and head inside to sulk in private, but I don’t get that luxury. Not when I’m supposed to be experiencing this resort. I can’t just go hide out in my room.
I give myself five minutes. I lie back on the lounge chair as if I didn’t just get reamed out by Archer Bradley, and I sit and let my head do the sulking.
And then I get back to work. I check my live, but I shut off my phone as soon as it ended, so I didn’t post it to my feed in time.
I check my post from this morning with photos of the lobby and my drink from last night, along with sunrise yoga and breakfast, and they’re all doing fine with an average amount of engagement. Nothing spectacular yet, and I’ll have to figure out something exciting to post to get my numbers moving.
I meant to save my live so I could cross-post it to YouTube, but I guess I got a little thrown off when Archer Bradley stopped in front of me to yell at me, those abs rippling like a goddamn wave in front of my face.
God, he’s hot.
God, I want him. Just one more night. Is that too much to ask? I’d even take hate sex at this point. Imagine how hotthatwould be with Archer Bradley.
I take some B-roll video footage around the pool along with some still photos, and eventually I go up to my room to take a shower. I make a reservation at the steakhouse in this tower for dinner after I learned my lesson last night, and then I head out to explore. I spend about five minutes in the casino—one of the few parts of my tripnotfunded by the resort—and lose twenty dollars almost immediately. I can’t take photos in there, but I still felt the need to experience it at least once. And now I’m good.
I walk through the mall in the Coast Tower and find a restaurant to eat lunch, and afterward, I do a little shopping. I snap a few photos of the stores I saunter into.I check the price tags, and these are most decidedlynotbeer budget prices. I even check the sale rack only to find the “sale” price on a beautiful floral dress is only about five dollars off the regular price—still a steep two hundred bucks.
I’ll pass since anything I purchase, aside from food and activities, is also not funded by the resort.
I try to find something, anything, that I could buy on my budget, but even the freaking pens cost eighteen dollars apiece. Eighteen dollars. For a pen. I’ll just snag the one off my nightstand for that price. It comes with stationery, too.
I head up to my room to edit a few of the photos I took on my afternoon adventure, and eventually, it’s time to head down to dinner.
And wouldn’t you know it? Sexy calves are right in front of me at the check-in desk for the second night in a row.
I don’t say a word, instead choosing to let him enjoy his dinner without even knowing I’m here, but we’re definitely on the same schedule—and it’s fate at work, too, since we both chose the same restaurants our first two nights here.
But even though my intentions are good in trying to stay out of sight from him for now, the hostess who seats me did not get that memo.
She seats me at a table directly beside his. The restaurant is crowded, and our tables are about three feet apart—far enough for a server to squeeze through if needed, but close enough that I can smell that same soapand mint and whiskey scent that’s all him. We’re across from each other. Surely he will notice me any second.
My thighs clench together as I sit becauseof coursethey do. Dammit.
All I can think about is last night.
