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He twirls his finger for emphasis, and I do as he says, presenting my back to him. He starts to spray, the sunscreen hitting my skin and making me shiver. When he slowly pushes my hair away from the back of my neck, his fingers brushing my nape, I bite my lip and close my eyes, savoring the feeling of his hands on me. His body so close to mine. I can feel the heat radiating from him.
One more step and we’d be flesh to flesh. I don’t know what I would do if that happened.
I sort of want to know what it would feel like. To have Tate pressed up against me. His bare chest against my back, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck?—
“Will you spray me now?” he asks, interrupting my vaguely dirty thoughts.
My entire body flushes, and I glance up at him to see he’s already offering me the sunscreen. I take it from him, and he turns so his back is to me. I start spraying, covering what feels like acres of skin, silently marveling at the smooth expanse of his back, the breadth of his shoulders. The twin dimples at the base of his spine, just above the waistband of his swim trunks.
I even bend down and spray the backs of his legs, wanting to make sure every inch of him is covered, and when I’m finally finished, I whisper, “All done.”
My voice is gone. My heart is hammering in my chest, threatening to fly out at any given moment, and I tell myself to chill. This is no big deal.
It means nothing.
He glances over his shoulder, his lips curved in the faintest smile. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” I return, setting the sunscreen on a nearby table.
Feeling awkward, I practically throw myself back on the lounger, grateful I have sunglasses on so he can’t see my eyes. He’s humming as he repositions his towel, stretching it out so it covers the entirety of the lounger.
I pretend I’m not watching as he settles in on the chair, the sunglasses covering his eyes once more, his body, gleaming with sunscreen, aimed toward the sun. My gaze crawls over his skin, taking note of every little thing. His strong neck. The muscular shoulders. How he lifts his arm, running his hand through his hair and pushing it away from his face, his biceps bulging. The faint smattering of dark hair between his pecs. The same dark hair that runs in a line from his navel down his stomach, before disappearing beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.
My mouth is dry. My entire body aching. My gaze lingers on his shorts, wondering what sorts of mysteries lie beneath the fabric, and I get all flustered and uncomfortable just thinking about it.
“You okay over there?” He doesn’t turn toward me. He barely moves save for his lips when he asks the question.
I look away like I’ve been caught staring, when there’s no indication that he actually knows what I was doing. “I’m fine.” I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re rustling around over there. Sounds like you can’t get comfortable.” He turns his head in my direction, lifting his sunglasses so he can peek at me. “You already getting hot?”
More like hot and bothered. “It’s kind of warm out here.”
He faces the sky once more, dropping his glasses over his eyes. “Jump in. I’m sure the water will feel good. Cool you down.”
Yeah, I definitely need to cool down. In more ways than one.
CHAPTER22
TATE
Not too sure why exactly I feel this way—let’s call it intuition—but I think my fake girlfriend is having, ah, horny feelings at the moment.
And they involve me.
My entire body is relaxed. As if I don’t have a care in the world, which is the furthest thing from the truth. Deep down, I’m amped up and anxious, worried about having to come up with a bunch of fucking great songs in a short amount of time, and I don’t know if I can do it.
The doubt and self-loathing hit me like a freight train the moment we walked onto the plane and I saw Roger sitting there, an expectant look on his face, his gaze assessing. Scarlett was seemingly oblivious, thank God. She doesn’t need to be worried about shit.
I’m the one whose entire life feels like it’s riding on this moment. This time in Los Angeles, the album, the fake relationship, all of it. One wrong move, and I could potentially fuck everything up.
My entire career—life—blowing up in my face.
The need to have a drink makes my skin itchy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The bar in the family room is empty of any sort of alcohol, which I assume isn’t normal. I’m positive Roger made sure there wouldn’t be a single drop of liquor in this house.
Hell, I’d even roll a joint or indulge in an edible, just to get out of the fucked-up headspace I’m currently dealing with. But none of that is readily available, and deep down, I know it would be a huge mistake. I can’t be California sober, as they like to call it.
I’m either completely sober or completely wasted. There’s no in-between.
