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Flirt with him.
Oh, how it worked. He was in that pool and on me within minutes, and for a moment there, it all felt so incredibly real. The tension between us was thick. The heat. The hunger. His body pressed against mine, his eyes on my mouth, staring at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
And when he kissed me? I reacted without thinking, allowing him in, tangling my tongue with his. His hands on my body. My legs automatically wrapping around him, his hands on my butt...
It was amazing. It was hot.
Until Roger had to show up and ruin everything.
I absently rub my cheek, still trying to rid myself of the lingering sensation of Roger’s lips on my face when he gave me that brief kiss.
Gross.
After my shower I blow-dry my hair, standing in the bathroom in a pair of panties and nothing else, seriously contemplating my body and finding nothing but flaws. No guy has been interested in me before, not even the one who I basically threw myself at for the last two years of my life. Why would I think someone like Tate—who has been with numerous women in the past and could probably get anyone he wanted right now with a snap of his fingers—be interested in me? Whatever happened out at the pool was a one-off. A moment that will most likely never occur again.
He’s got work to do. An album to make. Songs to write. I need to stay out of his way and be there like a good little devoted girlfriend when he needs me. That’s it.
End of story.
Once my hair is dry, I slip on a pale-yellow strapless dress, liking how the color makes my lightly tanned skin glow. My phone buzzes with a notification, and I glance down at where I left it on the counter, realizing that I haven’t posted for a couple of days.
I decide to do a “get ready with me” video and keep it real.
When I crack open the blinds on the window, plenty of sunlight pours in, and I set up my phone, propping it against a lamp. This is good enough.
“Guys, I’m in sunny Southern California, and I feel a little in over my head.” I stare into the camera, hoping they can see the genuine fear and apprehension I’m currently experiencing. “I know none of you will feel sorry for me. ‘Oh, poor little rich girl getting to travel across the country and spend the next few weeks with her hot, famous boyfriend while he makes an album.’ I get it. I do. But guys.” I lean in closer, my goal always intimacy. “My hot boyfriend is extra hot out here, and I think I’m a total distraction.”
As I put on my makeup, I ramble about my presence being an issue when all I want is to support and even inspire him. I even talk about my life feeling like a movie, right down to the Southern California location and how none of this seems real, blah blah blah. It feels good to get my feelings and worries off my chest. Like I just called up Rachel and unloaded on her.
I watch a few minutes of my video once I’m finished filming and decide... screw it.
I’m posting it right now, before I chicken out. Despite management or whoever coming up with a recording schedule and topics for me to discuss on my social media, I’m doing my own thing. Most of those ideas seemed incredibly phony anyway, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve been at this for a while, and I’m pretty sure I know what my followers want.
Me being as raw and real as possible.
With shaky fingers I hit post on a few different sites, then breathe out a shuddery sigh of relief once I’m done. Too late to take it back now.
The moment after I post, there’s a knock on my door, and I go to open it to find Tate standing there. Looking gorgeous as usual in a pair of khaki shorts and an untucked white button-down shirt that’s open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up. “Ready to go to dinner?”
“Is it already time?” I go to my bed to grab my bag from where I left it and then get my phone before I return to where he waits at the door. “I’m ready.”
“You look... nice.” He sounds as if he just forced himself to say that, and I want to wilt under his too-brief inspection.
His word choice isn’t great either. Nice? Okay.
“You do too.” I paste on a bright smile and sling my purse strap over my shoulder, ready to walk past him, but he stops me with a gentle brush of his fingers on my arm. I see the look on his face, and everything inside of me starts to tremble. “What’s wrong?”
“Just... don’t feel bad about what Roger said to me earlier.”
My fake smile slips back into place. “I don’t.”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Scar. I know it bothers you. You’re not a distraction.” His fingers slip down my arm, featherlight and leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. “More like an inspiration.”
“Oh.” We stare at each other for a moment before I blurt, “I made another ‘get ready with me’ video.”
His brows draw together. “Oh yeah?”
I nod. “I forgot to follow the script, though. Think they’ll be pissed?”
