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“In that case… Oh, crap. No. I’m not here tomorrow.”
Tyler runs his thumbs under my eyes. “You’re not? Where are you?”
“California. For the Balfour shoot. Again.”
A slow, easy grin spreads across his face. His dimple appears and his eyes light up. It’s the most spellbinding smile I’ve ever seen on him. “You got called back? That’s amazing!”
“Yeah, I only—”
He pulls me against him gently. His lips brush across mine in a succession of soft kisses. I run my hand up his chest and sink my fingers into his hair at the same time that he cups my ass and lifts me onto my knees. He lies back on the sofa, taking me with him, and wraps his arms around my body while keeping the same easy rhythm of our mouths.
Nothing is rushed about these simple, easy kisses. It’s the purest connection we’ve ever had, and I’m thrilled and I’m scared at the same time. As he holds me tighter, I realize that I’m more thrilled than I am scared.
“Mmm,” I hum when he kisses the corner of my mouth.
“When do you go?”
“Hm? Go where?”
Tyler laughs, bringing me out of my slightly dizzy haze. “To California.”
“Oh. I fly at, like, ten tomorrow morning.”
He runs his hands down my back to my butt and taps it lightly. “Come on. I’ll help you pack.”
“You’re not going to drag me into your room and strip me naked?”
“Liv, if I wanted to strip you naked, I wouldn’t have to do it in my bedroom.” He sits us up with a grin. “And as much as I’d love to, you need to pack.”
“I’ll be fine. It won’t take long for a few days.”
He clasps my hands with his and pulls me off the sofa, leading me to the door. “I’m going to make sure you have everything you need. I know you’ll forget something important.”
I step into the elevator after him. “No, I won’t. I need makeup, clothes, a phone charger, shoes, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush.”
He smirks, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind me. His hands trail lazily across my stomach, and he presses a firm kiss to my skin where my neck meets my shoulder.
“And your vibrator.”
My skin hums after his words. “Why do I need my vibrator?”
“So you can use it and think of me.”
“And if I get searched at security?”
“Then we’re all gonna have a bloody good giggle at your expense. It’s going in the suitcase, and you’re going to use it, and you’re going to think of me.” He nips my neck. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
California is hot. Really, really hot. Compared to Seattle, it’s another world.
And standing here below the burning sun, pretending I’m not covered in sweat so thick it could be another layer of skin, is next to impossible. Thankfully, the photographer calls a break and one of the girls runs over and hands me a water bottle. No one else is suffering the way I am.
But hey. That’s what you get when you put a northern girl in a southern climate when the North is pretty much still in winter.
After ten minutes, a wipe-down, and a reapplication of my makeup, I head out to the waterline. The photographer is a nice, friendly, thirty-something woman who’s famed for her beach shots. It’s evident to see—the positions she asks me to contort my body into is practically fucking yoga. I’m half tempted to ask if she’d like to shoot me in the downward dog position.
Of course, she’ll likely give the other girls, who are holed up in different hotels, the same instructions. I just have to hope none of them can do yoga, because then I’ll be pissed off. Right now, my fitness regimen is all that’s keeping me balanced. If I hadn’t been doing basic to medium yoga for three years, I’d be flat on my ass.
