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"You need to get dressed, Wynn," he said, voice shivering over my skin.
"Yes, sir," I agreed, hearing that pained sound again a moment before he backed away from me.
He moved around my body, sopping wet.
"This won't happen again," he said, gaze not meeting mine.
"Okay, Mr. Buchanan," I agreed, noticing the flash of desire before he ducked his head, and moved away from me.
I watched his back as he walked off and disappeared into the house before I grabbed my clothes, and ducked into the bathroom off of the pool room, dressing, then towel-drying my hair before pinning it back up, then making my way out of the pool room, and into the kitchen.
Which was where Blake found me five minutes later, looking taken aback.
"What's up, Blake?" I asked, pretending to jot something down in my ever-present notepad.
"I was just in here looking for you," he said, and it almost came off like an accusation.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, I was restocking the paper products in the garage," I lied. Well, partially. I had done that before I'd gone into the pool room to chase Fitz, to get one more chance at putting a show on for him.
"Oh," Blake said, looking deflated by that news.
"Did you need something? To steal some more fabric softener, perhaps?" I asked. "I've never met anyone who has gone through that stuff as quickly as you do," I added.
"What can I say, I like my clothes soft."
"And with fabric softener marks," I said, reaching out to grab the sleeve of his shirt, showing him the slightly white spot.
"Whoops. Anyway, I had a request for the party."
"What party?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"The one my brother clearly forgot to tell you to plan," he said.
"What?" I hissed, heartbeat picking up as my mind started to race. "What party? When?"
"A work party for the clients he has been schmoozing for half a year and their wives. In a week and a half."
"Oh my God," I hissed, stomach sinking. "How could he forget to tell me that?" I asked, but was immediately answered by the memory of him avoiding me like the carrier of a viral plague. "Are you sure he isn't planning it himself?"
"I don't think he would know where to start for something like that."
He wasn't wrong.
"I, ah, I will have to ask him. What was your request?" I asked, flipping to a new page in my notebook and jotting down things that I would want done before he had company.
Like having the floors waxed and the carpets shampooed. Washing the drapes. Getting someone in to clean the windows and the ceiling fans and chandeliers that were too high for a normal ladder to reach.
"That you make sure he uses some other catering company. The food was complete shit last time."
"Okay. Noted. I will look up options, and bring them to him," I said, jotting that down. "Thanks, Blake," I added absentmindedly.
"Did you just take a shower?" he asked, halfway out of the door.
"What?" I asked, then remembered my hair. "Oh, no," I said, reaching up to touch it. "I didn't have time to dry it before work. I have thick hair," I added. "Takes forever to dry."
"Hm," Blake said in a way that made me think that if he hadn't outright seen his brother and me, he had suspicions.
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my clothes, grabbed my notebook, and charged through the house to confront Fitz about this supposed party.
Eleven
Fitz
It wasn't that I'd forgotten about the party, per se.
It was too important to have completely slipped my mind.
I guess the problem was I'd underestimated just how much work needed to take place to get my house—which always seemed reasonably ready for company—prepared.
Wynn had been unexpectedly prepared to tell me all the shit that needed to be done.
After sitting back a little slack-jawed at her list, she'd explained that her step-father was a businessman who often needed to host events, so she'd learned from a young age how to get a house ready for an event.
When I'd asked why she'd been the one to help rather than her mother, she'd given me a sort of sweet smile and declared that her mother was more the type of woman to spend her day out picking wildflowers for the tables than calling the cleaners or caterers.
And, in a way, I guess that gave me quite a bit of insight into Wynn.
She had a free-spirited mother that had likely instilled in her a love of art, thus encouraging her to go to school for it, but a business-minded, practical step-father that gave her the skills to self-start and be good at a more regimented job.
Not that I needed to be thinking any more about the woman than I already did.
Ever since the pool, all I'd done was think about the feel of her curves, the soft sighs that escaped her when I touched her, the taste of her pussy on my tongue.
