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Poorly, she might add. Looking as if his skin were riddled with a rare disease rather than sporting a hard-won tan.
To add to that, he had to be new to the job as he seemed to be swishing the skimmer around aimlessly, capturing not a damned thing in the netting.
If she gave a whit, she’d model the proper way to skim a pool and suggest he get a haircut and just stop with the Justin Bieber highlights.
Then again, that jaw.
It was square and rigid. You could slice butter with that jaw.
Wait.
She froze.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Sheknewthat jaw.
A muscle twitched along the right side.
She knew that twitch. Had been the personal cause of it on more occasions than she could count.
What the…
As she marched toward the supposed pool maintenance man because, clearly, he was no boy, he continued to swish aimlessly while turning to the side.
As if he could hide from her.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“Cleaning the pool, Mrs. Shepherd,” he replied rather loudly.
“You need to go. Now.”
“Not until I finish the job.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, and you don’t know the damage you’re causing.” She stiffened her spine, fists clenched. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”
He paused. “What are you going to tell them? That your mayor stopped by to say hello and for that offense, you want him arrested?”
Birdie blinked long and slow. Looking around the backyard, she grabbed his arm and led him toward the pool house. She might be able to avoid prying eyes from the staff, but she’d have to ask Flynn how to erase footage of her dragging the pool boy into the pool house.
That video clip could compromise all of her plans.
After pushing him inside, she yanked off his glasses and then the wig, taking some of his real hair along with it.
“Fuck,” he yelped, bringing his hands to his scalp. “I had that wig secured with hairpins.”
“What are you doing here?” she hissed and then sobered. “Is it Mia? Is she okay?”
She fisted his tank with both hands. “Is it Angus? Are there complications?”
Then her concerns moved to the Pinkie Posse. “Is it Pinkie? Erma?” The women weren’t getting any younger—one of them was bound to fall, get sick, or taken into custody. “Omigod, is it Bernadette?”
“Everyone’s okay, Bird,” he assured, and she instantly deflated into his arms, as if all her adrenaline released in one fell swoop.
This wasn’t good. She was torn between draping her body over him like a throw blanket or kneeing him in the groin. Pushing away from him and stepping back, she looked him over. “Why are you dressed like a D-rated exotic male dancer?” And then sniffed his arm. “And smell like yeast?”
“It’s the self-tanner.”
