Chapter 2
Zane
You ever get the feeling you’re not alone?
It’s a prickly feeling, like icy fingertips running up your spine as your instincts tell you there’s someone watching you.
Right now, it feels like someone is in my backyard watching me.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone snuck onto my estate property to try to get a photo, an autograph, or confess their undying love.
If that sounds vain, it’s because it kind of is.
I’m a supermodel, what can I say?
I admit it does get old sometimes. Especially when I’m in a bad mood. I just want to have a drink, go for a swim and be left the fuck alone by everyone.
I swear I heard the Old Spice theme song playing in my backyard a minute ago, too.
Considering I haven’t done a body wash shower promotion in a hot minute, I doubt there’s a rep hiding in my bushes.
Besides, if I am going to promote a body wash, I’d choose their competitor; red isn’t really my color.
Which can only mean one thing.
I make my way down to the pool, desperately needing to cool off. I won’t go into why I’m so pissed off right now, but trust me, I have good reason.
The water feels good. Almost good enough to help me forget why I am swimming twice as fast and three times as hard as I usually do.
I swim until my brain declutters a little and I can scream without anyone hearing me. Until my lungs burn from the exertion. Then I’ll hop out and take a breather on the cobblestone edge of the pool.
That’s when I see rustling in the climbing plants on the pergola and hear the wood beams snap.
Then, there’s a flailing of limbs and half a shriek.
There isn’t just someone in my yard; there’s someone falling through the pergola, splashing into my hot tub below.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, jumping to my feet.
Most people would probably call the cops or grab a weapon of some sort. I don’t know what to do; I guess that just goes to show how often I deal with this shit. I’m not even alarmed by the stupidity of stalkers. Annoyed, maybe, but not shaken.
I’ve been doing this for twenty-four years. It would take a lot to shake me at this point.
I march over to the hot tub and confirm there is a person in all black floundering around in the tub.
I sigh, reaching in and grabbing them by the scruff, yanking them clean out of the tub.
“Holy shit,” they let out.
“Holy shit is right,” I say. “What the hell are you doing in my hot tub?”
“Drowning apparently,” the person sputters, and I realize it’s a woman’s voice.
She’s clenching the front of the black hoodie in her fist. I grab the other hand to rip away the hood and find that it’s a young woman.
An attractive woman.
My jaw tightens, and I narrow my eyes.
“What are you doing drowning in my hot tub?” I ask.
“Well, I mean it wasn’t my intention,” she laughs.
“No. I can’t imagine it was. Why would break into someone else’s house–”
“In my defense, I’m not in your house,” she says, and my jaw hardens.
“Why would anyone risk going to jail just to get a closer look at a celebrity?” I continue. Then my eyes trail up to the camera hanging in what’s left of my destroyed pergola rafters.
“Right,” I sigh, letting go of her to grab the camera. “Well. I guess that answers that.”
“What answers what?” she asks, looking a little worried. As she should.
“You and your stuff are coming with me,” I say.
She looks confused, and that’s when I throw her and her camera over my shoulder.
Hot water runs down my back, and that makes me even more annoyed. Thanks to my unannounced visitor, this is about as close as I am getting to soaking in my hot tub tonight. Awesome.
“What are you doing!?” she shrieks.
But even her flailing doesn’t discourage my grip. She’s a tiny thing, though shapely, and she’s going nowhere now that I have her in my grasp.
I don’t answer. I simply stalk into my house, close the sliding door, and lock it.
“Why are you locking the door?” she asks as I set her down at the kitchen table. “Oh my gosh, your house is freezing!” She whines, hugging herself.
“It’s because you’re soaking wet,” I say. Not that I’m not, but I’m also not trapped under dark, baggy, identity-concealing clothing.
“Yeah. Sorry about your pergola,” she says as she shivers.
I toss her a throw-blanket from the couch. Then I go through the photos she took while sneaking around in my yard.
“Sorry about your camera,” I say before throwing it on the tile floor and watching it shatter into a million pieces.
“Oh my god, are you insane?!” she gasps. “That was expensive!”
“So was my pergola,” I tell her as I point to the damage. Then I walk down the hall to the linen closet and grab a towel.
“Look, you can’t keep me here,” she says.
“No?” I ask. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll call the–the…the…” she stutters.
I’ve stripped out of the swim shorts, and while my back is to her, there is not much left to the imagination. I smirk to myself, grab the towel, and wrap it around my torso before walking back to the table.
“The who?” I ask. “The police?”
“Yes. Them,” she swallows hard, her cheeks flushing nearly to the same color red as her auburn hair. I bite back a smile.
“I’m the one who should be calling the police,” I tell her.
“You broke my camera,” she says.
“You broke my pergola.”
“You’re holding me hostage,”
“You were trespassing,”
She glares at me. I arch one eyebrow to my hairline.
“It’s my job,” she snaps.
“Breaking and entering?” I ask.
“Taking photos of you!”
I scoff at that. “Oh, trust me, I’m aware of your job. And you know what? You’re all the same. You care more about a paycheck than the privacy of people like me,” I say as I walk into the kitchen to grab two beers out of the fridge. “Thirsty?”
“Lite beer?” she asks.
“Is that a problem?”
“I just assumed you’d drink something more crafted. An IPA or something. You strike me as an IPA bro,” she says.
Honestly, I like an IPA. I’d drink them more often, but my manager consistently reminds me about my competition. Upcoming models like Jett Navarro are twenty years younger than me, and so are their metabolisms; an IPA is a death sentence.
But since I don’t want her knowing that, I scoff again. “IPAs are great, but they’re loaded with calories and carbs.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man say those words before,” she says as she takes a sip. “This isn’t half bad. How many calories did you say?”
I ignore the latter part of the sentence and address the beginning. “That’s because most of the men you’ve met don’t have to look like this,” I tell her.
This time, she’s the one scoffing. “You are something else. You’re not that hot, you know,”
“Oh?” I challenge with a smirk. “Is that why you’re staring at me?”
“I’m staring at you because you insist on walking around the house in nothing but a towel,” she says, taking another sip of the beer.
“That’s one of the perks of having your own house. You can wear, or not wear, anything you want,” I say with a wink. Then I take a sip, set the bottle down, and clap my hands together. “Alright, so what are we going to tell them?”
“What are we going to tell who?” she asks.
“The police,” I answer, and her eyes widen.
“You’re actually calling the police?” she nearly chokes.
“It was your idea.” I state. I’m messing with her, obviously. I love messing with paparazzi; it’s always a good time. God knows they mess with us enough.
“Well, there’s no point,” she stutters. “I mean, you destroyed the evidence,” she frowns down at the camera. “And possibly my paycheck…”
“Lucky for you, I have more evidence,” I tell her, and her eyes flicker up at me. “Security cameras.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. Then she stands up. “Look. I’ll make a deal with you. You let me go, no cops, and I’ll never come back again.”
“I don’t think that’s really how that works, sweetheart,” I tell her, leaning against the counter and crossing my feet at the ankles. I take a sip of my beer with amusement on my lips.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, this is your job. You’re paparazzi. Sneaking around is what you do,” I say. She bolts up from the chair, causing the throw blanket to fall to the floor around her feet and her hood to fall back off again.
She stands in front of me, shorter by a good six to eight inches with a scowl that could burn holes in my recently exfoliated skin. There is something else burning in her eyes, though. Anger? Passion? Definitely passion, though I’m not a hundred percent sure what kind, but I want to find out.
“I am not just paparazzi,” she snaps, giving me a little tease of a taste of that passion.
“But it’s your job,” I state.
“Yes. For now. But it’s not who I am,” she says boldly.
I can’t help but shift my weight and smirk at this. Most of these people are either ruthless with their lens and set out to destroy, or they’re not the brightest people in the world.
“Alright,” I say, my voice deep and low, barely above a whisper. “So, who are you?”
“My name is Ashlyn Hart. I’m a photographer, but I don’t usually do things like this,” she says. I swear there is a hint of a purr in her voice.
“Oh, really?” I ask, brushing back a flaming red lock of her still damp hair from her eyes. She’s not wearing any makeup; it’s a refreshing change from the women I am usually around. There’s a lot going on behind those green eyes, too, which is another rarity.
“Really,” she states, but now her words are breathier. Even with the oversized hoodie, I can see her pulse quickening in the rising and falling of her chest.
“I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you never do things like this,” I say, unzipping the hoodie and letting it fall off her shoulders. Beneath it is nothing more than a black tank top. I don’t think she is even wearing a bra.
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that just because you have a six-pack, you’re still as relevant and capable as the models half your age. If you’d let me publish those photos, I could have helped you prove that,” she tosses at me.
I study her hard before a smirk crawls across my lips.
“First of all, I don’t need your help to show the world I am relevant.
I think it’s obvious, don’t you? And secondly, there’s more than six.
You’ve stared at my abs long enough, and I know you can count.
And last but not least,” I say, tipping her chin up to look directly into my eyes, “I am very capable of anything your pretty little head can come up with…and more.”
My words seem to have loosened her stubborn jaw just enough that her lips part.
Is that an invitation to cover them with mine?