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It’s crazy. We’re causing serious mayhem everywhere we go, and I don’t get why people care so much.
I hear a low whistle coming from somewhere and realize I’m standing alone in the living area while Tate is already in the kitchen. “Damn, this is nice.”
I follow him into the massive space, silently taking in everything. There is white everywhere. The marble countertops, the cabinets, the massive island, and the walls. There’s a breakfast nook with a sleek white table and chairs filling it, surrounded by windows that overlook the gorgeous backyard with what looks like a never-ending bright-green lawn and a rectangular pool that I swear must be Olympic size.
“Wow,” I murmur as I go to one of the windows and stare outside. “This is beautiful.”
“Roger and Irresistible never do anything half-assed,” Tate says as he moves about the kitchen. I hear doors opening and glance over my shoulder to find him staring into the refrigerator. “We have a personal chef who should be here any minute. Roger texted a few minutes ago letting me know. They’ll make dinner for us.”
“A personal chef?” I’m used to this sort of treatment at home thanks to being a Lancaster, but I figured we would mostly be on our own out here.
Surprisingly enough, looks like I’m wrong.
“Oh yeah, there is no expense too great for me right now, according to Roger. And Simon. Thanks to the song hitting the top ten.” He leans against the edge of the pristine white marble countertop, watching me. “I’ll eventually be charged for all of this, though. They’ll sneak it into my royalty statements, and it’ll take me years to earn out.”
I glance around the contemporary kitchen, wondering how much something like this must cost. “Do they own this place?”
“They rent it, I’m sure at a steep cost. Again, it’s all part of the image. ‘Tate Ramsey has hit it big again. His next-door neighbor is Drake. More at eleven.’” He throws his hands up in the air and makes the jazz-hands gesture, his fingers wiggling. “The more I fit the image, the more it feeds the machine, so to speak.”
“What machine?”
“Oh, come on, Scar. The publicity machine.” He pushes away from the counter and starts to exit the kitchen via another hallway on the other side of the room. “Come on. Let’s go check out the bedrooms.”
I follow him, impressed by the size of the rooms. There are two primary bedrooms on either side of the hall, and I choose the one that overlooks the backyard. I want a view of that pool. Since I’ve lived in the city for the majority of my life, this sort of yard feels so different to me.
And I love it.
Our luggage is brought in by one of the security guys, and I unpack the essentials. Tate meets with the personal chef once she arrives, eventually calling me into the kitchen to join them so I can discuss any dietary needs or allergies I might have. Once she starts preparing our dinner, I go back to my room and change into a bikini, donning a black sundress as a cover-up before I slather my face with SPF and then head for the backyard.
“Where are you going?” Tate’s deep voice calls from within his bedroom.
I stop in the open doorway, slipping on my Fendi sunglasses, the cute ones with theFlogos all over the frames. “To the pool.”
He’s standing beside his bed, his suitcase open, and when I glance at it, I can’t help but think it looks like it just exploded. Clothes are literally everywhere, most of them unfolded and wrinkled. “Going for a swim?”
“Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder. More like definitely. I want to lie out in the sun first on one of those big loungers that sit by the pool. Soak up those rays—with SPF on, of course. And then once I get hot enough, I’ll jump in the pool and cool off. “Do you know if they have towels outside?”
“Probably. Come on, let’s go check.” Tate heads toward me, and I dart out of his way, standing to the side as he strides out of his bedroom, before I fall into step behind him. We walk out onto the back patio via the kitchen’s back door, and Tate finds a storage box full of towels next to a table. He props open the box lid and reaches inside, handing me a thick white towel, our fingers grazing during the exchange. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” I take the plush towel, trying to ignore the tingling sensation sweeping up my arm at the innocent touch. He’s watching me with a heavy gaze, absently rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, and I have this sudden urge to fling myself at him and see if he’d grab hold of me.
I bet he would. Wait, scratch that.
I know he would.
That kiss in front of the restaurant while a group of people watched us might’ve been for show, but it felt like so much more. At the very least, it felt different compared to the previous ones, unlike any kiss he’s given me before, and this is the third time we’ve done this.
The first one was a shock, and once he got into it, he teased me, almost as if he was daring me to kiss him back, which I did.
The second time, out on the street? I think he kissed me to shut me up, and it worked. That one was simpler and, thanks to my anger and frustration, fairly unmoving.
The third one, though?
If a chorus of angels had come down from the heavens and sung us a song while we kissed, I wouldn’t have noticed. Everything around us faded. The audience, the cars on the street, the usual city noise. Even Rachel faded away, and all I was left with was the sensation of Tate’s mouth moving over mine. His tongue gliding against mine. His hands on my body and that warm, hard wall of muscle known as his fit body pressed against me...
I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since. I don’t remember ever feeling this way when I was with Ian. Not that he ever held me or kissed me. Oh, a few times on the cheek here and there over the years, but that was it.
And he definitely never sang to me. Or wrote me a song. He most definitely never declared his feelings for me publicly, let alone privately. Not that I expected Ian to do anything like that. Tate singing for me felt cheesy and almost silly the night of my birthday. Well, with the exception of when he sang me “Happy Birthday” and there was that dark, almost sensual gleam in his eye as he watched me. Like he was thinking about me in... inappropriate ways.
