Chapter Seventeen
“After my injury, I had a really hard time recovering. It felt like I lost a part of myself when I wasn’t playing anymore. But thanks to my amazing trainers and family, I’m excited to say that I’ll be back at Wimbledon this year—just a few months after I finish filming Love Shack.”
—Roland Marchetti, in an interview with Good Morning America, three months ago
When I went into investigative reporting, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind: lying naked under a low-slung bed to get intel. My clothes and shoes are still clutched in my hand, and I pull them out of view as Rhett and Lainey enter the suite.
“She didn’t even bite,” Lainey is saying. “Addison pushed her off the ladder and she didn’t so much as fight back.”
“Hold up,” Rhett says. From underneath the bed, I see their shoes stop in the middle of the room. “Addison pushed her off a ladder? Is she all right?”
I try to ignore the concern in his voice.
“She’s fine,” Lainey snaps. “There was a crash mat.”
“You can’t do shit like that, Lainey,” he says. “She could’ve been seriously hurt.”
Lainey’s designer loafers slap impatiently on the floor as she walks to an armchair and sits down. He sits opposite her, facing the bed. Quietly as I can, I scoot further back, holding my breath.
“I have to do something,” she hisses. “You know the situation I’m in. I have to get the ratings up or else we’re done. And the network wasn’t exactly thrilled that you were the only one willing to host.”
Rhett gives a short, dry laugh. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
“Take it as a compliment,” Lainey says. “They didn’t want you to upstage Roland. Though maybe that’ll end up being a good thing.”
My ears perk up.
“Would it really be so bad if it came out?” I see one of Rhett’s boots lift, like he’s placed his foot on his knee. “It might actually get ratings up—intrigue and all that.”
“I’d be fired because I cast him even though I knew,” Lainey says.
“But it’ll come out eventually—you can either be the one who tried to cover it up or the one who tried to fix it. He only took them for a few competitions,” Rhett says. I hold my breath, listening hard. “It’s not like he hurt anybody.”
Lainey sighs dramatically. “Yes, but some of his sponsors came over to us. It would look like I ignored it to get the money.”
My mind is whirring so fast I almost miss what Rhett says next.
“My lips are sealed,” he says. “But I still think you’d be better off going public, saying that Roland is working on it and taking a step back from playing until he recovers. It’ll come out eventually, you know that.”
Serena will go rabid for this when I get ahold of her. Right now, all I can do is speculate, but once I get more evidence, this could be a huge story. Who would’ve thought? The great Roland Marchetti, doping his way to success.
Lainey stands and starts pacing back and forth until she stops in front of something on the floor. I squint at it and my heart drops. Lainey’s hand comes into view and she pinches the object between her fingers.
“These yours?” she asks Rhett, holding up my underwear.
My chest throbs with each terrified heartbeat.
There’s a long pause, then Rhett says, “Never seen those before. Must’ve gotten mixed up in the laundry.”
Lainey pauses, then tosses the underwear back onto the floor. “Rhett, if you’ve been—”
He cuts her off before her voice can crescendo. “I’m not sleeping with any of the women.”
“Because after what I did for you—”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Rhett stands and moves toward the door. “Are you planning on staying much longer? I want to get changed.”
After a few more muttered words, Lainey sweeps from the room and the door shuts behind her. I let out a silent sigh of relief.
But I’m still naked and hiding under Rhett Auburn’s bed.
I watch with bated breath as he steps forward, picks up my underwear, and remains still for a few moments.
I see his feet turn on the spot. That very underwear might’ve been in my laundry pile when he spent the night in my apartment.
But there’s no way he’d recognize them, right?
Now is the moment to let him know I’m here. Otherwise, I could be trapped for who knows how long. But demanding answers when I just naked-spied on him seems wrong somehow. I’ll do it another time when I’m fully clothed and haven’t been lurking under his bed. Right now, I have to get out of here.
He tosses the underwear onto the bed and walks back into the sitting room. First, his shirt falls to the floor, then he kicks off his boots, peels off his socks. In any other situation, this strip tease would be sexy, but right now all I feel is panic.
Finally, his jeans drop into sight. I hear the sliding doors to the patio open as he walks outside.
This is my chance. I wriggle out from under the bed and pull my towel more tightly around myself, clutching my clothes and shoes in one hand.
I stare longingly at my underwear, a black spot marring his pristine white comforter, but I don’t dare.
If I take them, he’ll know someone was here.
Once I’m in the sitting room, escape starts to seem impossible. The sliding doors out to the deck are solid glass, not to mention wide open, giving me a full view out and him a full view in. There’s no chance I’ll be able to get across the room without him noticing.
I step forward, taking in the pink-tinged rectangle of light framed by the sliding doors.
In the center, Rhett sits with his back to me, on the edge of his private hot tub.
He’s holding his guitar and humming quietly to himself.
The tan skin of his back stretches miles between his shoulders, the valley of his spine curving down into his waistband.
I stand, transfixed, watching him strum the guitar, arms moving ever so slightly as he plays. I step forward so I can hear what he’s singing, and make out a few words: “Sometimes, it’s a hard time, being new.” A melancholy tone, full of longing.
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper. The words are out before I can stop myself, and I brace for his surprise. Or shock. Or even anger. But he just turns around and stares at me, brows raised in typical Rhett fashion.
“So that was your underwear?”
“Um, yeah,” I mutter. “Sorry … I dropped them when I was crawling under your bed.” What a ridiculous statement. “I…” I hesitate, wanting to explain myself. “I came to talk to you.”
Still twisted around his guitar, he frowns. “I’m glad you’re okay. I—if I’d known what Lainey had planned, I’d never have let you out of my sight.”
“Please,” I say, putting on a brave face.
“You think being pushed off a ladder can get me down? I’m made of stronger stuff.
” I walk out onto the patio. The first landing of the deck has just the hot tub, but farther out, down a few steps, is the pool I fell into on the first night.
Beyond that: the ocean, choppy from the storm.
But the body of water closest to me, the man sitting on the edge—it’s the most dangerous by far.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. I meet his eyes and he stares back, x-raying me. Part of me wants to split in half and let him sew me back together. But the stronger part nods and pulls on a tight smile.
“I can’t believe Lainey would do something like that,” I say, hoping he can’t tell I’m fishing for information.
“She’s done worse,” he says simply, resting his fingers on the strings of his guitar.
The sun is starting to set, peach and pink and the receding purple storm striping the horizon. If the sky were music, it would be a summertime melody, sad and happy all at once, not unlike the song Rhett was just singing.
“Want to get in?” he asks.
I bite my lip, looking to the left, where the long hedge rises, separating Rhett’s space from the naked pool party happening on the other side. “What if someone sees?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Power’s off. No cameras over here anyway.”
“I—I don’t have a swimsuit.”
Instead of responding with words like a mature adult, he looks pointedly at his own underwear.
When he raises his eyes back to me, I blush and humph, stalking back inside to grab the thong I chose to avoid underwear lines on camera.
Since I didn’t wear a bra, I pull my top (which barely covers my stomach) over my taped nipples, then walk back outside and step into the hot tub.
Rhett’s eyes rise to the thin waistband cutting across my hips, the lace arrowing between my thighs, and his jaw ticks as he looks back down at the guitar resting on his lap.
As I sink into the water across from him, I sink back into that night. My eyes trace over the tattoo winding around his arm, the minimalist black lines inking tall peaks, carving mountains out of muscle.
“The Smokies,” he says, catching me looking.
Last year, I never asked. My cheeks heat and I look away, but I’m right at eye level with his crotch, so I blush again.
He hooks a smile and sets the guitar down on the pavement beside him, moving his arms so I can see the tattoos on his stomach and chest. A large jumble of lines stretching over his chest and down almost to his navel.
I imagine following the lines with the tip of my finger, balanced between holding back and tipping headfirst into oblivion.
I sink deeper into the water, letting it fill me to my neck, as my eyes wander over his skin.
A large flower covers the left side of his chest, stem extending to his stomach.
Ringing the flower is a state outline. It’s haunted me for long enough that I know it’s Tennessee.
“You ever been?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ve been to Nashville.”
“I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but we’re going next week.”
“We’re going to Nashville? All of us?” Just when the Malibu mansion was starting to feel safe, they’re going to rip the ground right out from under our feet.
He nods in response, running a hand over his jaw. “When I promised I’d take you sometime, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”