“Yeah but some things don’t change, and you aren’t the girl who gets a hotel worker fired. You also aren’t a bimbo social media whore that is going to fuck this up,” Billy says with the same confident tone he has in pre-race interviews. Like he’s won the race before the cars are even on the grid. “I heard you schooling McDougal, remember? And I saw that sexy little smirk on your lips when I walked up here. You’re not only capable of doing this job, youwantto do this job. You’re not going to fail at this.”
“Oh I could still fail,” I say as I lift myself out of the pool. I manage to do it gracefully but Billy doesn’t step back. He’s right there in front of me. Close. Too close, and I can barely hold onto my balance as I right myself. He reaches around and presses a hand to my lower back, ever so gently, just enough to keep me from wobbling and falling back into the pool. My wet skin is now dripping all over his dry skin. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.
I can’t help but note his eyes sweep the length of my body. He isn’t even trying to hide it. I’m wearing one of the bikinis I did a photoshoot in earlier today in my suite. This one is aquamarine, like the color of his eyes. It’s got an iridescent shimmer, just like his eyes do with the pool water reflecting in them.
The warm air swirls around us, bringing that scent of his into my airspace again. “You can’t possibly be cold out here tonight. It’s still hot as hell.”
“I’m not cold.”
“Your nipples are,” he states, and my cheeks warm. “Or they’ve got other reasons for being so… perfectly perky.”
Kill me now.
“I should slap you for that,” I reply and storm off to retrieve my towel. “Keep your eyes off my nipples.”
“Can I put other things on them instead?” Billy James is officially brazen and crass. And I don’t hate it as much as I’m pretending to, which is a mistake. Why do I keep letting mistakes happen around him? “Like my hands? Mouth?”
Oh my God, why do I want to say yes? The urge is so overwhelming, I can’t speak for fear I’ll say it. I wrap the towel around my torso slowly, my back to him and scramble mentally to find my composure. “I’m sure your bed buddy appreciates you talking to other women like this,” I tell him and reach for my glass of prosecco. “You’re a pig.”
He smiles. “FYI, bed buddies don’t give a fuck what you say or do with other people. It’s not a romantic partnership. But also, Clara isnotmy bed buddy.”
I roll my eyes before tipping my head to sip my drink. He’s watching me, I can feel it. “Are you going in the pool or what? I mean, why else are you up here?”
He walks back over to me. “I like to swim alone.”
“So do I, but yet here you are.” I finish my glass. I’m mad at myself for it because I have a mandatory two drink maximum per night, and I just guzzled that first one so quickly I didn’t enjoy it. I blame Billy.
“You don’t drink, so this is a plot twist.”
“I do drink. I was drinking the night you met me,” I remind him. How can he forget sitting on that rock, listening to the waves crash, and sharing that bottle of pricy bubbly? I thought it was the most romantic thing ever at the time. Okay, even now in retrospect. It was unpretentious and authentic despite the cost of the bottle.
“Haven’t seen a glass of booze in your hand since that weekend,” he says, those big strong hands still fussing with the towel. Ugh, it’s torture to keep my eyes off that area of his body. “You fake it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve seen you order seltzers and juices at parties and I accidentally drank your Shirley Temple remember? I’ve watched you carrying around a glass and barely sip from it,” Billy informs me. “Like the champagne tonight.”
“I don’t drink alcohol in public,” I admit and drop down onto the lounger.
“Why fake it?”
“Because alcohol beverage companies pay good money for sponsorships.”
“Isn’t that false advertising then?”
I shake my head. “No because I do drink the products I pitch. Like Midori. It’s delicious. I just don’t drink in public. I’m working a job, I don’t need to get tipsy, and also, I don’t trust other people to make my drinks.”
He thinks about that for what feels like an eternity but is likely only thirty seconds and then, his voice low and his left eyebrow high, he asks. “What else do you fake, Frankie?”
I ignore the truck load of innuendo he just dumped at my feet. “Look, you swim, or whatever, and let me lie here and pretend you don’t exist.”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Remember, you asked for it.” He moves over one step to the lounger where Clara tossed his key card and drops his towel.
Billy James is suddenly, unabashedly,bucknaked.
