Chapter 29 Lex
Lex
Clear blue water sparkles in front of me, peaceful and unburdened—until Rudy cannonballs into the pool and the water swells like a seismic sea wave, drenching everything within close range.
I shake water droplets out of my hair, watching as he pops back up with a whoop that hardly penetrates the loud music pouring from two standing speakers.
I don’t like parties—never have, never will. But I don’t have much of a choice these days, and even if I did, Rudy’s birthday would always be the exception.
Endearing fucker.
People mingle outside, chatting in small groups and at patio tables, some playing volleyball in the small stretch of grass with just enough room for a net. The ball bounces into the pool over and over, beckoning bikini-clad women to dive in and fetch it.
I’m lying sprawled out in a reclining patio chair, sunglasses perched over my eyes, a cocktail notably absent from my hand. Fuck drinking. One glass of whiskey and I’m spilling my pathetic guts to a green-eyed girl who’s been looking at me differently for the past week.
It’s my own fault. I don’t know what came over me that night, except that I couldn’t stand the thought of her thinking that untrue shit about me—that I was some man slut, plowing through women like cheap beer at a frat party.
My only counter to the fallout has been to maintain some distance and keep my mouth shut.
Unfortunately, it was time to make a public appearance again, so here I am, my acting cap on and my defenses forced to shut down while I pretend to be a real-life Casanova.
The patio door slides open, and I glance right, watching as Stevie steps outside in her bathing suit, newly free of the summery yellow cover-up she wore here.
Heat travels through my chest, journeying south.
She’s wearing a triple-strap black bikini, her creamy curves on full display. The California sun has added a touch of bronze to her skin tone, making her eyes appear a shade lighter. When I glance down at her knee full of scars, my heart pangs.
Everyone stares at her as she lingers outside the door.
She looks lost. Probably thinks they’re staring because she’s the newcomer, but that’s not the truth.
They’re staring because she’s fucking stunning.
She’s always had curves, once hiding them under baggy denim and oversize shirts.
But now she’s evolved, grown, embracing a bold new style and currently flaunting a tiny bikini that barely swallows her breasts.
I shift in the chair, ejecting the thoughts that teeter on dangerous ground. It’s not like that with her and never will be, so I need to stop leering at her like she could be the first woman I decide to fall into bed with.
Fuck.
Never going to happen.
This fake-dating bullshit is starting to mess with my head.
Stevie glances around the backyard briefly before her attention lands on me.
She catches me staring in her direction, but since my sunglasses are on, I’m able to hide it well enough.
I pull up off the lawn chair and make my way over to her.
“You look lost, babe.” The mask slides back on as I transition into the role of leading man.
She blinks at me, taking a second to follow my lead. “I was looking for you.”
While there are no photographers on-site, the party is swarming with industry bigwigs—producers, agents, clients, fellow actors, and costars. We can’t afford to slip up, or someone will inevitably blab it to the press. “Are you going to swim?”
The center of her throat rolls as she swallows. “I was thinking about it, but…” She covers herself. Folds her arms over her breasts as the sun pinkens her cheeks. She feels the eyes on her. “I don’t know.”
My jaw ticks. I reach out and pull her arms away from her chest, my gaze dipping. “Don’t hide.”
“Um.” She breathes a nervous laugh, refusing to meet my eyes. “There are a lot of people.”
“So?”
“So I’m second-guessing my wardrobe.”
“Why? You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” The actress standing next to me swoons, whispering something in her friend’s ear. My hands raise to hitch along Stevie’s hipbones with a squeeze, then trail lazily up her midsection. “I fucking love your body.”
Stevie is clearly having a harder time harnessing her acting prowess. She stares up at me with half-lidded eyes, questioning my authenticity.
I make a face, urging her to go with it, and she shakes away the haze.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmurs, flattening a palm to the planes of my bare chest, the muscles twitching beneath her touch.
I yank her forward, flush against me, while my hands drift downward and graze over the curve of her ass. When both of her palms press into my chest and her exhale falls out in a stuttering gasp, I bend down so only she can hear me. “Is this okay?”
A quick nod.
I apply a featherlight kiss to her temple, balancing the overt physical affection with a touch of intimacy.
Beside us at one of the patio tables, a male grip I sort of recognize mutters loud enough for us to hear, “Damn, Hall’s new chick is stacked.”
Stevie doesn’t seem to react to the comment, her eyes hardly open, her index finger tracing my ridged sternum, but a heady shot of protectiveness surges within me.
I inch back and take her by the hand, leading her away from the rubberneckers. “Come sit,” I say, guiding her along the pool’s edge. Then my voice pitches. “We can watch Rudy play chicken because it’s the only way he can get a woman to straddle him.”
“Heard that!” Rudy flips me off as a slim blond topples off his shoulders and plummets into the water.
Nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street in the heart of Beverly Hills, Rudy’s bachelor pad boasts a classic white stucco facade with sleek, modern lines, large windows, and a giant in-ground swimming pool.
With only two small bedrooms and thirteen hundred square feet, it still cost him a cool two mil.
He told me he decided to buy a house instead of a condo just in case he ever met the girl of his dreams—because domestication is a turn-on. His words.
Damn sap.
Linking my hand with Stevie’s, I pull her over to the chair I was sitting in. All the other chairs are taken, so when I sit down, she remains standing, unsure what to do. “Sit,” I say again, nodding at the open space between my legs.
She blushes. Luckily, the sun is scorching today, so it acts as camouflage. Hesitating for another beat, she slowly turns and lowers herself onto my lap, her bare outer thighs grazing my inner. I’m wearing swim trunks, so the layers between us are limited.
I lean back in the chair, taking her with me. My arms wrap around her middle, my hand splaying until my pinkie finger is brushing the trim of her bikini bottoms. She’s stiff in my arms, so I bend toward her ear and whisper, “It would help if you pretended to like me, Nicks.”
She melts a little, tipping her face up, our eyes meeting over her shoulder. “Sorry.”
My lips brush waves of dark-brown hair, the shell of her ear. “I know you’re a better actress than this.”
Her eyes spark with a challenge.
Loosening further, she drapes her palm over the top of my hand, curling her fingertips until her ruby nails are tickling my knuckles. Then she shimmies her ass against me.
I inhale a sharp breath, practically a hiss, which I know she notices, since my mouth is still hovering against her ear. Her hair smells like fucking pina coladas, so that’s not doing anything to keep my pulse from fritzing out and my dick from twitching inside my swim trunks.
I stroke a hand over her soft abdomen, my eyelids fluttering.
Aside from acting roles, my experience with physical intimacy is next to nothing.
Just a kiss.
One real kiss on an old high school stage, one I stole because there was no other choice; I had to kiss her.
I told her—in my moment of embarrassing, confusing emotional whiplash—that it was only for the show.
For the audience, for the performance’s sake.
But that wasn’t true. I kissed her because I needed to, because she’d never looked so beautiful, and because I knew it would be my greatest regret if I didn’t.
Turns out I have a mile-long list of greatest regrets these days, but I’m still not sure where that kiss falls. Somewhere between a colossal mistake and the only time I ever felt truly alive.
But it’s not the time to be thinking about that.
We’re on the clock, in character.
I widen my legs a fraction, my knees slightly bent as our feet kiss at the bottom of the chair.
Stevie’s head lolls against my chest, right beneath my chin, as she intertwines our fingers.
My other hand journeys off course, trailing the side of her torso, up and down in steady lines, my fingers moving higher, my thumb dusting the side of her breast.
She freezes, tenses up. I feel her breathing accelerate, her stomach quivering under our clasped hands.
Then I drop my arm to my side.
She deflates with a sharp breath, glancing up at me again. “Why did you stop?”
I swallow, averting my eyes. “We should probably keep this PG.”
I’m not going to cross any lines under false pretenses. Or ever, for that matter.
Grabbing her tit would be crossing a line.
Nodding gently, Stevie lowers her head to my chest, her coconut-scented hair tickling my jawline.
We stay like that for a while. I’m not sure how long, but long enough for me to realize I’m dozing off.
The warmth of her plush skin is a makeshift blanket, and the sunlight seems softer, more subdued, than it felt ten minutes ago.
Both of my arms tighten around her as a peaceful feeling washes over me. The same feeling I had lying in her bed, listening to her play piano chords, her voice a husky lullaby.
I feel better.
Lighter.
Like my demons took a hiatus, allowing me a slight reprieve.
But the reprieve is over when Rudy lumbers toward the chair and shakes his sopping-wet hair all over us like an impromptu rain shower on our dry land.