I sit back in a low teak chair, forearms braced on the arms, and watch.
Lyla is across the deck with Emily and Valerie, perched on the edge of the infinity pool, deep in conversation. Her legs are in the water, toes flexing lazily beneath the surface. Her lavender hair is damp at the ends, clinging to her collarbone.
Sunlight slides down the curve of her throat and disappears between her breasts before catching in the hollow at the base of her neck.
She tips her head back and laughs. But I notice the tension in her shoulders. The way she carries herself.
She knows exactly where I am—and that I’m watching. She hasn’t looked at me once since the challenge. Not after the blindfold. Not after she hesitated on that platform and fell into the water. Not after I dove in after her and took her into my arms.
And the moment she took off that blindfold, when she looked up at me with those big, hypnotic eyes, I felt a tug at my heart. And deep down, I think she felt it, too. I just need more time with her. But how? It’s not like I can force her to hear me out, to make her give me trust when I haven’t earned it.
The sun burns across my shoulders. Sweat gathers at the base of my spine. I don’t move. Then I notice Sean drift toward the women, specifically staring at the back of Lyla’s head.
He’s way too close.
I clock it before he even reaches her. The shift in his posture. The way he angles his body to hide the obvious bulge in his trunks. Casual, but intentional.
He leans on an elbow against the bar when she excuses herself and heads in the same direction.
When she settles in one of the seats, he slides closer. His awareness drops to her bikini-top-covered breasts when she isn’t looking.
My hands curl slowly into fists.
“So Dallas, huh?” he says, initiating a conversation and flashing an easy smile. “Great city.”
What riveting conversation. Now fuck off. The urge to cross the deck and “correct” him with more than just a knuckle sandwich burns hot and immediate.
She’s not yours, you dumb fuck.
I curse under my breath. As much as I’d rather shield her from male prying eyes, this is a dating show. And right now, I’m the last person she wants around her. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her being pursued.
Lyla turns toward him politely. Her smile is gracious, but distant. Controlled. Her shoulders square, chin lifted. She’s definitely not interested.
“It is,” she replies. “At least I think so since I live there.” Her tone is light. Friendly.
Sean, somehow, must see her neutral response as an invitation to escalate further, because then he inches closer.
“Maybe you could show me around sometime,” Sean continues, caressing a finger along her arm. “After we get out of here.”
White-hot rage flares in my chest.
Fat chance in hell, asshole.
My hands curl slowly against the arms of the chair. If his hand travels anywhere lower or higher, so fucking help me, I will personally make sure he permanently wears his dick for a hat.
I start to rise from my chair, ready to punch Sean into next week, when I remember where I am. Cameras glint in the reflection of the pool like small, unblinking eyes. They’re waiting; the producers, whoever will be watching this show when it airs, are expecting a dramatic reaction out of someone like me. I can’t give them that, the satisfaction. Not when I still have so much ground to cover with Lyla.
Lyla continues to smile politely, as though she’s not quite sure what to make of Sean’s statement. “You seem very…confident.”
“I am, baby.” Even his flirting sounds sleazy.
“You’ll have a great time with me.”
She lets out a stiff laugh as she silently searches for an exit.
Sean doesn’t notice, but I do.
Even though Lyla is giving him only friend vibes, he shifts closer still. His gaze drops—quick, subtle—then back up her body to her face.
