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“No, I don’t.”
“They bitch because they care. When they stop fighting, that’s when they should worry.”
I swallow and look at the floor. Hasn’t he just hit the nail on the head and banged it right through the fucking wood? I care for him—I do. And not because he’s a great lay. But because, despite how infuriating he is, he’s funny. He can be tender, and no matter how much I kid myself, I kind of like his infuriating. He doesn’t hesitate to challenge me or push my buttons.
Seriously, the arguing really is a sick kind of foreplay.
Tyler spins me. His arms are still around my shoulders, and he rests his chin on top of my head. Despite my orders to stay by my sides, my arms creep up and wrap around his waist.
One tear falls. And another.
Because I’m petrified. I’m so fucking scared of what I was avoiding in the first place.
“See? It’s not hard,” he whispers. “We can be nice to each other outside of the bedroom.”
I laugh quietly. “Only because we’ve already argued.”
“True.” He pulls me tighter to him. “I’ll send it back. If you want. The lingerie.”
I sigh heavily and shake my head. “You don’t have to. I just freaked.”
“No, you didn’t, did you?” he says with false shock.
I pull back and smack his chest, a smile playing on my lips. His dark eyes sparkle down at me, amusement evident in them. Slowly, he presses his lips to mine in a full-bodied kiss that sends shivers down my spine.
This kiss is slow and soft. Tender and deep. It says a thousand things we can’t say out loud. Mine says that I’m afraid, that I can’t have more than what we have now. His responds that maybe I’m not seeing clearly what there is and that there’s no reason to be afraid. And mine says that there is, because he doesn’t know it all.
He might be addicted to sex, but I don’t think he’s ever experienced true addiction.
“Trust me,” he whispers. “You’re a little wild and I’m a little wild, and together, we’re a whole lot tempted. But just trust me.”
I say yes.
My phone rings, breaking through the silence. I grab it and hold my breath when my agent’s name flashes on the screen.
“Sheila,” I answer.
“Liv! Fantastic news. Balfour are interested in you coming in for a test shoot. Are you free Thursday?”
“What time?”
“Between twelve and three.”
I run through my shifts in my head. “Yes, at twelve. I’m supposed to work at one, but Donny won’t mind.” As long as I wear an extra-tight, extra-low-cut shirt that day.
“Fabulous. I’ll call them back to confirm. Also, you should know they’re testing twenty girls.”
“Ouch.”
“That was my first thought—but I have confidence in you, Liv. And I have a question.”
“Hmm?”
“Were you comfortable shooting with Tyler Stone?”
Oh, I was comfortable all right. “Yep.”
“Great. Because he’s the photographer.”
