“I am notscowly,” Ryder insisted, his scowl deepening.
“Francesca can lend you her mirror, if you’d like to see for yourself.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing on me. I loved the hairstyle Phillipe had chosen for his character Holden—they’d taken advantage of Ryder’s length up top to create artfully mussed waves with a slightly sculpted swoop in front. It was somehow both sweetandsexy. He looked like the love child of James Dean and Cary Grant. “Franny, am I scowly?”
Francesca tried—unsuccessfully—to smother her smile. “You do have that whole ‘tortured artist’ thing going on,” she confessed apologetically, and I shot him a triumphant smile.
“I rest my case.”
Ryder pressed his lips together, faux stern, and shook his head in disappointment. “I can’t believe you’d turn on me like this, Franny. I thought we had something special.”
Francesca giggled, blushing to the roots of her hair, and I suppressed an eye roll. Somehow he’d conned all theseunsuspecting women into thinking he was some sort of sweet-tempered boy scout instead of the fire-breathing dragon I knew him to be.A gifted actor, indeed.
I turned to confront him once Francesca had finished up and left us alone. “Seriously, whyareyou such a sourpuss today? We haven’t even started filming yet, so there’s no way I could’ve annoyed you already.”
The smile that quirked his lips was blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick, but I caught it. Maybe that was the key to unlocking Relaxed Ryder: teasing him out of his bad mood.
“Scowly sourpuss.” He shook his head, amused in spite of himself. “Your insults are creative, I’ll give you that.”
I refused to be deterred. “I saw you talking to Nate. Spill it.”
He seemed to debate leaving me hanging, but when I put my hands on my hips, he let out a beleaguered sigh. “I’m not happy about my costume,” he admitted.
I blinked at him. “You mean your bathing suit?” He nodded. “What’s it look like?”
When he demurred and glanced away, I perkedallthe way up. “Well, now you have to show me.”
“So you can make fun of me? Forget it.” The tips of his ears were tinged pink, and he refused to meet my eyes.He is really embarrassed about this.
“Come on, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I taunted coyly, deploying my dimple.
His gaze swung back to me, his face lit in challenge, and now he’d perked up.Got him.“Fine, you go first.”
Ooh-kay.I untied the belt and slid the robe partway off my shoulders, feeling a bit like a flasher opening their trench coat,and shivered against the bite of the cool air. It was a modest bathing suit by today’s standards, revealing only the slightest hint of skin, but the way Ryder’s teeth sank into his lower lip, eyes flaring as they flicked down my body, made me feel nearly naked.I think he likes the suit.
I felt his gaze like a touch as he dragged his eyes back to my face. “So you get to look hot and I get to look like a total jackass. That’s just great.”
Hot. The word zapped down my spine like electricity, tingling in my fingertips. My robe slipped a little farther and his eyes darted to my cleavage.
Or maybe—he likesmein the suit.
Goose bumps bloomed on my chest. “I’ll be the judge of that,” I tell him, my voice feeling rusted over. “Time to drop trou, mister.”
He started to loosen the belt of his robe, then hesitated. “You can’t laugh. I’m already self-conscious enough.”
I shrugged noncommittally, agreeing to nothing.
He unknotted his belt, and as soon as his robe fell open, a snort escaped. “Oh my.” I collapsed into giggles before I could stop myself. “Oh, Ryder.”
“This was the least offensive of the options they gave me, if you can believe it.”
Another laugh burst out of me, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.
His swim trunks—if you could call them that—were short and tight. And I meanreallytight. Truth be told, they were closer to briefs than a swimsuit. Cut high on the leg, the dark blue stretchy knit fabric clung to his thighs and could barelycontain his, er…package. Every place I tried to rest my eyes felt indecent. “I think this suit may push us into an R rating,” I managed between snickers.
“I tried to push back, but apparently this style is ‘historically accurate,’ ” he said with tight air quotes, the hollows of his cheeks rosy with embarrassment.
“They’re really not that bad,” I lied, eyeing the piping on the sides, the elastic belt with a metal buckle at the waistband.They are definitely that bad.“They’re…jaunty. Kind of sailor-ish.”
