“When I was trying to unzip myself and you stopped the shower.” These are the facts. I shouldn’t be blushing deeper fromasking about them. “I just want to make sure if I do, um, shower tonight, I don’t keep you awake or anything. Showering.”
As in, I’m jumping into the coldest water possible the second I’m free. “Oh, no.” The scissors reach the top of my underwear, and it could be my imagination, but is his hand drawing me closer to him? “I was curious is all.”
“About?”
“I wanted to know what made you moan like that.”
I’m notgoingto die in this dress. I am dead. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry, oh, shit, that’s—I did not mean to make you think I was doingthat.”
His knuckle brushes over my tailbone. “I know,” he murmurs. “You’re secretive.”
Pause. Rewind.
He thought I was touching myself. Discreetly.
And he… stopped what he was doing to ask me about it.
He’s joking. This is how men joke when they’re famously good in bed and the global sports conglomerate knows it. That, or he was offended that I was ruining the sanctity of our only-one-bedroom situation. Because I’m not going to pretend like Arthur couldneverbe attracted to me—he just also knows me, and that usually does it for people. This summer has showcased the gross, jealous, hyper-competitive sides that I typically stuff down, giving him a front-row seat for my envy and secrets.
More importantly, any connection between us is fake for him. After tonight, we’ll go back to our regular plot: documentary and deniability. Then, in a matter of weeks, I’ll be cast out of his dream world with a scarlet letter and the film footage of a lifetime, while he lines up a new career in Italy. Our lives will return to polar opposites, media and muse, reality and freedom.
Arthur isn’t normal. I won’t run into him while buying toothpaste,or see him dating a friend of a friend in a few years. Once I leave Ignition, we’re done.
“Are you finished back there?” I lick my lips. Arthur’s fingers haven’t moved in minutes.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps me in his hand, like the putty that I am.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Cold air nips along my spine. He’s stepping back, and I grab the front of the dress before it slips down. “Go shower.”
There isn’t room in his statement for argument. I nod quickly as I turn toward him. Then I’m not nodding.
His face is red, his pupils dilated. He looks like he just drove for twenty-four hours straight, a faint sheen of sweat gathered along his cheekbones and brow, the rest of him a mess. Breathing too hard and looking away and embarrassed. And the only possible reason is me, my cursed dress, and the pair of sewing scissors he’s got gripped in his hands. I don’t need to debate it. It’s right there.
Arthurisattracted to me.
The whole world tilts. Straighter or sideways, I don’t know. But suddenly, my life is different, and I feel like we’ve jumped into another timeline, where every second ticking down to September singshe wants me, he wants me, he wants me.
“Thanks,” I say. “Again. For this.”
Arthur sets the scissors on a side table. “Sure.”
His voice is thick. I really should be walking away. But—he wants me. He wantsme. “It was nice of you.”
“Anytime.”
“Really, though.” He’s looking at me now, my eyes, my lips, the hand clutching my dress. “You’re… nice.”
Ever so slowly, Arthur folds his arms, his back straightening as curiosity flickers across his sloped mouth. “I am?”
“I guess. Sometimes.”
To my delight and fear, Arthur takes one solid step toward me. “You guess,” he repeats.
“Yeah. And tall. You’re probably too tall to be driving those cars.”
He frowns, silent, and taps his thumb on the outside of his forearm. I’ve never seen him think this hard about anything—I’m used to off-the-cuff brilliance. It’s possible I misread this, though I don’t know how this time. He’s flustered. Not moving, either. His dark hazel eyes have a hungry, honeyed haze I’ve only seen when he’s talking about driving. He’s looking at me like I’m something he wants to win, a prize right outside his reach.
