Naked guy in the flower garden.
Summer fling.
Oh, fuuuuuuuuck.
No.
No way.
I slip back to the staff room.
What was his name?
I can’t remember, so I open a browser and search forbaseball umpire grippapeen, andoh, shiiiiiiiiit.
“What?” Rhys says to me from the doorway.
I open my mouth.
Shut it again.
He steps in the door as a dark-haired guy pauses behind him and squints at me. “Margot?”
I make eye contact with Rhys, who instantly turns around. “No visitors in the staff areas,” he growls.
As if a dozen or more other people at this point haven’t broken that rule.
“Margot?” the guy repeats. “Is that you?”
“Leave my housekeeper alone. No signs, no nudity.”
I busy myself with cleaning up everyone else’s lunch trash.
“No, I know her,” the guy insists.
“Johnson, you know this guy?” Rhys says.
I shake my head.
“Must be mistaken,” Rhys says. Orders, really.
I like when he uses that tone when we’re in bed.
It’s such a fucking turn-on to be ordered around by a massive guy who couldn’t honestly hurt anyone without solid cause.
“Sorry,” my old fling mutters. “I really thought that was her.”
“Even if it was, you don’t get to talk to her,” Rhys growls. “Understand?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“You might like walking around with your junk out, but our staff gets all of the privacy they deserve.”
“Got it. Fuck, I got it already. I’m mistaken.” He snorts. “Like she’d be here cleaning up after other people. I’m such a dumbass.”
Rhys glares at him until he retreats up the staff stairs, white ass cheeks gleaming beneath his tan.
When he’s gone, Rhys glances back at me.
