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It might’ve all been a publicity stunt, but I fell for it completely. I wanted to swoon. Even Rachel—who is one of the most hardened people I know—totally fell for it. She was all giddy and fluttery around Tate, and when he took a selfie with her last night so she could post it on her stories? She was giving him a moony look that left me grumpy for about a minute.
Then I remembered I was the one who was stuck with him for the next six weeks, and I forgot all about my jealousy. Because that’s what it was. I was jealous. Feeling downright territorial. For the next six weeks, Tate Ramsey belongs with me. To me.
End of story.
“You already finish unpacking?” Tate asks, his smooth voice pulling me from my thoughts.
“Kind of.” Not really.
He smiles. “I’m going to finish up, and then I think I’ll join you.”
“By the pool?” My voice turns into a squeak.
His smile grows. “Yep. See you in a few.”
Tate tugs on the end of my ponytail playfully and then heads back into the house.
I stand there for a moment, gathering my wayward thoughts. Wondering how I’m going to endure the next couple of weeks at this house with Tate. I was under the assumption he would be locked away in a recording studio for hours on end every single day, leaving me alone. But he explained to me on the drive to the house that the first week or two, he’ll be working at the studio that’s on the property, putting songs together with a sound engineer and a keyboardist. Meaning he’ll be here for the majority of the time that I’m here as well.
I know he’ll be busy, but he’ll also be right here, all the time. And that might be kind of weird.
Or will it?
I pull one of the heavy loungers closer to the pool, lay the thick towel across it, and take off my sundress, readjusting my bikini top so my boobs are mostly contained before I settle down. The sun is warm but not as intense as I thought it might be, and I reposition the lounger once again before I lie on it, closing my eyes and tilting my face toward the sun. It warms my skin almost immediately, lulling me into drowsiness within a few minutes, and just when I’m about to fall asleep, I feel a shadow settle over me.
“You’re going to burn.”
I crack one eye open to find Tate standing at the foot of my lounger, clad in black swim trunks and nothing else, dark glasses covering his eyes.
I nearly swallow my tongue as I take in all that bare skin on display. The man is in fine physical shape, his body much more developed than it was when he was a lanky teenager during his boy band days. I remember thinking he was so cute then, my body responding in unfamiliar ways to a shirtless photo shoot he did.
He looks a million times better, plus it’s in person. My body is at it again, responding in all sorts of ways, and I shift my position, pressing my thighs together to stave off the sudden needy feeling racing through me.
“Am I already turning red?” I ask, glancing down at my bare shoulder.
“A little.” He lifts his shades, his narrowed eyes skimming over my body, lingering in places that make me squirm again. “You put on sunscreen?”
“Only on my face,” I admit, feeling silly. I should know better. Baking myself in the Southern California sun without protection? What’s wrong with me? I blame jet lag, though that’s probably a bogus excuse.
“I brought some.” He shows me the sunscreen can clutched in his right hand. He offers it to me, and I take it. “Hold this for me, will you.”
I watch as he grabs another lounger and drags it over so it’s aligned with mine. He drapes his towel across it before he turns to me once more. I’m still in the same position, sitting there with the sunscreen in my hand, holding it like I’m a display model about to sell it to someone.
Yikes.
“Spray some on,” Tate encourages me, and I rise to my feet, practically bumping into him, he’s standing so close.
I shake the bottle and aim the sunscreen at myself before I start spraying my arms and shoulders and chest. My stomach and the fronts of my legs. I hand the bottle to Tate.
“You should do your back,” he suggests as he starts spraying himself.
My mouth goes dry as I watch the sheen appear on his smooth skin. “I can’t reach it.”
I feel like I’m in a movie. Haven’t we all seen moments like this, when the girl needs the guy to rub sunscreen or tanning lotion on her back because she can’t reach? Or she does the same for him?
Yeah. I’m having a weird sort of déjà vu feeling, though I’ve never actually had this happen to me.
“I’ll help you if you help me.” He grins, and I’m left breathless at the sight of that famous megawatt smile. “Turn around.”
