We come to an opening and I’m momentarily rendered speechless by the view. To the left is a massive kitchen, to the right a sprawling living area, but straight ahead, a wall of glass that looks out over the crystal-blue water of the South Atlantic Ocean.
“Wow,” I say under my breath.
“You must be Poppy.”
Startling, I spin around, noticing a man perched at the massive island counter, dressed casually in a t-shirt and shorts. Hopping up, he rushes toward me, holding his hand out.
“I’m Cam, Brookes’ manager.”
Cam smiles, and I shake his hand, the tension in my shoulders easing some from his presence. He looks about the same age as Blake, but where Blake looks like the kind of man who has multiple pending sexual discrimination cases against him, Cam looks kind. Nice, almost; his smile appears to be genuine, at least.
“These are fucking shit!”
I jump, whipping around at the sound of the deep voice that booms behind me, balking when I notice the figure filling the wide doorway, wrestling with what appears to be a shirt stuck over his head. Brookes. Naturally, my eyes rove downwards, taking in his body, because holy crap. The man is stacked in all the right places; smooth skin pulling tight over taught muscles, and that V that dips down into a pair of little athletic shorts that leave little to the imagine. Ten out of ten. No notes.
“I can’t even… get this… fuckin’ thing… off!” Brookes groans, thrashing side to side.
“Oh my God,” Cam mutters, stepping around me and swooping in like a father helping a toddler on the verge of tantrum.
I glance sideways to find Blake pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head to himself.
“Quit fighting it!” Cam hisses.
“I’m trying!” Brookes cries, incredulous.
When Cam successfully manages to unleash Brookes from the confines of his shirt, Brookes’ pale blue eyes go wide when they find me standing here and despite his flushed cheeks, his hair that’s sticking up in every direction, and his breathlessness, he casually places his hands on his narrow hips and juts his chin at me like he wasn’t just fighting for his life, trapped by a shirt. “What’s up, Pops?”
Pops? I press my lips together in a semblance of a smile and avert my eyes from where they’ve been outright ogling his perfect nipples.
“Tell the designer that shirt is a goddamn death trap!” Brookes points at the shirt still in Cam’s hands before walking past me and into the kitchen.
I stand awkwardly rooted to the floor, not sure what to do as the three men go about their business. Brookes opens the door to the built-in refrigerator; Blake steps into the living area to take a call on his cell; and Cam moves back to where his laptop is set up on the island, tapping something into it.
“Did one of you assholes have the last grape Gatorade?” Brookes yells from where he’s buried deep in the fridge.
Cam turns his head, spearing Blake, who is currently chugging back a grape Gatorade while obliviously on his phone and, honestly, I can’t help but feel like I’m stuck in some frat house right about now.
I make a point of clearing my throat loud enough so that at least Cam acknowledges me.
With a tentative smile, I take a step toward him, nervously tucking my hair behind my ear as I say, “I’m kind of… in a hurry.” I indicate the Vista Palms logo on my polo shirt for effect.
“Brookes, come on!” Cam says, his tone taking on an authoritative tone.
Brookes slams the fridge door shut and hurries over like he’s in trouble, his blue gaze flitting from Cam to me and back again. “What’s up?”
Ignoring Brookes, Cam smiles at me and slides a stack of papers across the shiny travertine benchtop toward me. Confused, I look down to see a whole lot of words, my brain racking itself in an attempt to try to make sense of the legal gibberish.
“It’s a standard Non-Disclosure Agreement,” Cam explains. “It protects Brookes as well as you. You can take it home and have your lawyer read over it.”
My lawyer? Yeah. Okay. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes as I skim over the six-page document like it’s no big deal.
“And this is the contract which stipulates the terms, howyou’ll be remunerated, any claw backs, etcetera, etcetera.” He slides across another document, but the first thing I see is a dollar figure, and I’m forced to grip the countertop to stop my legs from giving way.
“Everything okay?” Cam asks.
I lift my head, noticing the worried look in his eyes, the crease wedged between his brow.
“I told you it wasn’t enough…” Brookes mutters from the corner of his mouth.
