As I watch her, Donovan’s arms flex, still folded across her chest, and I can’t help but note her physique. She’s strong in an athletic sort of way and tan like she spends most of her time outside. Even with her oversized t-shirt—worn with a pair of bike shorts—hiding the shape of her waist, I’m pretty sure she’s lean but solid and coulddefinitelygive Hunter a run for his money. A lot of actresses would kill to have a body like hers.
She doesn’t look like the kind of person who should fear a crowd, so what’s making her so nervous?
“Okay, Mr. Hollywood,” Donovan says, her lips twisting up in a tense smirk and pulling my gaze back to her face. “Maybe stop looking at me like a piece of fine art and start thinking of a way to get yourself out of this mess soIcan get out of your mess.”
Heat flushes through my face, something that hasn’t happened inyears. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I blushed, and my words stick in my throat as Donovan moves to the counter, leaning over it to say something to Chuck. It’s too quiet for me to hear, though Janie frowns down at her from her perch. Feeling like a kid in junior high with his first crush, I force my eyes to stay on the collection of hand-painted ceramic bowls to my right instead of letting my gaze stray to Donovan’s long legs that are currently on display.
What iswrongwith me?
Donovan is beautiful. I can acknowledge that. But that doesn’t mean I can stare at her like Liam does his guitars. At least she didn’t accuse me of looking at her like a piece of meat? Honestly, I’m not sure what she said is any better, and I don’t like that she caught me studying her.
There’s something familiar about her, not in a way that says we’ve met—I would remember meeting someone like her—but in a way that makes me want to know more about her. But that’s ridiculous, and she’s given me no reason to think she would ever be interested in a conversation.
She just wants to get out of here, a sentiment we share.
I scratch the scruff on my jaw and look over at Hunter, who’s giving me the strangest look as he continues to hold the shirt against the glass, now with another draped over his outstretched leg to obscure the bottom half of the door as well. He seems just as confused by my actions as I am, so I shrug and return my focus to the bowls before I get myself into trouble.
More trouble.
All things considered, I’m handling this situation pretty well, but I should start coming up with a plan, or I’m likely to make more of a fool of myself.
“Alright, Poster Boy, here’s the deal.”
Frowning, I look over at Donovan, who has straightened up and turned to face me. Her fingers are wrapped around her hair, slowly twisting it into a braid, and for a moment I’m mesmerized by the movement of her hands.Get it together. “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Who else?”
“Poster Boy?”
“I have things to do, and I’m sure you do too. And Chuck needs his store back.”
“I’m fine,” Chuck says.
Donovan ignores him. “So here’s the plan.”
“Plan?” I sound like an idiot, and it doesn’t help that she’s looking at me like I am one. Clearing my throat, I tug my hands from my pockets and fold my arms. I’m Derek Riley. Derek Riley doesn’t parrot things back to beautiful women, nor does he let other people come up with the plans. Especially when the public is involved. “Whatever your plan is, I don’t—”
“How about you shut that pretty mouth of yours and just listen, okay?”
She thinks my mouth is pretty?Focus, Derek. I narrow my eyes, reminding myself that she’s nervous and I can’t take anything she says asfact. “I’m listening.” And while I’m likely going to argue that her plan won’t work, whatever it is, I’m curious. Nerves aside, this woman looks entirely capable. Like, capable of doing almost anything.
With a glance at Hunter, who seems torn between staying at the door and coming to stand next to me, Donovan slowly works her way over to me, a strange glint in her eyes. Either she’s been pretending not to be as starstruck as Chuck and is about to show her cards, or this woman couldn’t care less about who I am.
My money’s on the latter.
It takes everything in me not to flinch when she reaches up and grabs hold of my hat, tugging it from my head. She studies the LA Thunder logo stitched onto the front—Cole’s rugby team—before holding it against her hip and tilting her head. “You want to get out of here, Riley? Then take off your shirt.”
I cough. “Excuse me?” And why do I almost do it immediately? It’s like my years of learning to deal with fans and tabloids have rewound beneath her hard stare, and I’m a bumbling teen again, trying to figure out how this whole fame thing works. I want to do whatever makes her happy.
But that’s a bad idea. Very bad idea.
She waves toward my chest. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you. Take it off.”
Hunter coughs, taking a step closer.
I hold him back with a raised hand, my focus still on Donovan as I muster up the wits to shut her down. Whatever her game is, I won’t play. “I’m not—”
“Ugh, relax.” With another roll of her eyes, she stalks over to the t-shirt display and grabs one to match Chuck’s, bringing it over to me and holding it out. “There’s a room in the back if you’re shy. You’re changing, not stripping—no one needs to see that.”
