“Was that her?” Yvonne asked, loud as a clarion on speakerphone.
“Goodbye.” Spence edged to his phone and viciously tapped it to end the call.
God-freakin-dammit. Tasha had heard at least some of his conversation. None of it had been pretty. He checked to be sure the waffle-iron wasn’t in danger of igniting the house, then strode across the kitchen to the hall.
Tasha was shutting the front door, a small, flat box in her hands, when he rounded the corner to the hall. She wore shorts and a tight, pink t-shirt, her hair was damp and slightly curly from the sea air, and she looked as though someone had handed her a dead kitten.
“Yvonne talks shit.” He jumped right to the point. “She always has and she always will. That’s her job.”
“I guess.” Tasha sounded casual, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “A courier just delivered this,” she brushed on, edging past him into the dining room.
Their puzzle was still in pieces across the table. They’d worked on one corner the day before, but hadn’t gotten far.
“Before you get wrapped up in whatever that is, please believe me when I say I do not share Yvonne’s stupid opinions about how I should be living my life,” he rushed to get it out while he had the chance. “I’m with you, and I’m happy. End of story.”
At last, Tasha dragged her eyes up to meet his. She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
Maybe, but it didn’t feel like enough. Renting a banner to fly behind one of the planes that buzzed along the shoreline on weekends wouldn’t have been enough to apologize for Yvonne either.
“So what is in the box?” he asked. If he couldn’t make it better, he could move on.
Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s for me, though.” She turned the box over. “It doesn’t weigh very much.”
“Open it.” He leaned against the side of the table, curiosity bubbling through his frustration.
The box was wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Tasha at Sand Dollar Point. She ripped carefully through the paper to find a shiny black box with a silver filigree M inscribed on top and a card. Tasha set the box and paper aside and opened the card.
All at once, her gloom faded. She arched an eyebrow, a smirk tweaking the corner of her mouth. “It’s from Jenny.”
“Should I be afraid?” he asked, warming into a grin himself. Anything that made light dance in Tasha’s eyes like that was a good idea.
She met his eyes for a moment before picking up the box again and breaking the tape on one side with her nail. She lifted the corner of the box to peek inside.
Immediately, she slammed the lid shut. Bright pink splashed across her cheeks and she kept her hands clamped tight over the box.
“I think I’ll just take this upstairs,” she blurted in a rush that blended the words together.
With one last, wide-eyed look, she snatched up the brown paper wrapping, clutched the box to her chest, and dashed out of the dining room and up the stairs.
Spence stood where he was, staring at the empty staircase, shaking his head. A click in the kitchen told him the latest round of waffles was done. He strode across the hall to deal with them.
His phone was vibrating when he reached the counter. Yvonne, of course. Well, Yvonne could go to hell, as far as he was concerned. He turned his phone off, then focused on getting breakfast ready for Tasha, once she came down again. With any luck, whatever was in the box would put her in a better mood.
A black leather corset and gartered stockings. Jenny was out of her mind.
Tasha lifted the lingerie out of the box and held it in front of her, face burning. Not just black leather, black leather with studs and, yes, buckles.
What. The. Hell.
She turned it around, looking at the back, then held it against her torso. If she wasn’t mistaken, the top wouldn’t quite cover her nipples. She’d be popping out all over. It didn’t help that the ensemble came with crotchless leather panties.
She tossed the corset aside and picked up the card, rereading it with a shake of her head.
“Hope you’re having fun on your vacation. Remember, you’re not Miss Pike there.”
On any other day, Tasha would have laughed at Jenny’s cheeky advice. Any other day that hadn’t started with a woman she’d never met telling the man whose arms she’d woken up in after a busy night to ditch her because she was nobody.
Tasha sank to the bed, flopping to her back. “What am I doing?” she rubbed her hands over her face as if she could change what she looked like, who she was, her whole history. It didn’t help.
She reached for the corset and held it up above her. At least Jenny had gotten her size right. A simple, average eight. But leather? And black?
Marissa Starr would wear a black leather corset.
The thought smacked her upside the head. Wasn’t that who this Yvonne woman had said Spence should invite to the house? If he did start inviting famous guests over—famous female guests—twenty years or no twenty years, she would pack up and head back to Portland.
She sat up, laying the corset across her lap and reaching for the matching panties and stockings. No, cruel as Yvonne had been, Spence didn’t sound like he was up for it. That was a consolation, but not much. She fingered one of the buckles on the side of the corset. The debate over whether to ask a guy about his sexual history was never something she’d had to worry about, not with Brad. Although arguably, she should have. How did you even start the conversation?
Worse still, what if Spence really was used to the gorgeous, Hollywood types? Was Jenny sending her a clue with the corset? It didn’t seem to fit what she’d come to know about Spence, but then again, nothing seemed to fit. Big-time celebrities didn’t shack up for the summer with nobodies. Yvonne—whoever she thought she was—was right.
“Who am I kidding,” Tasha groaned and stood. Who did she think she was?
She knew who she wasn’t, at least. She wasn’t Marissa Starr. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend.
She threw the corset on the bed, then tugged her t-shirt off over her head and chucked it across the room. Her bra came next. She clenched her jaw as she worked the fastenings of the corset, struggling to figure out how it even worked. Once she got it opened, she slipped it around her back, then battled to get it fastened up again. It may have been the right size, but she had to suck in her gut and scoop her hands down the top to get the ladies where they were supposed to be.
“God, I look ridiculous,” she hissed, already out of breath, once the thing was on. Although when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she had to admit she was impressed by how round her breasts looked with the life squeezed out of them, popping up from the leather and studs.
Bending at the waist was next to impossible, but she did manage to shimmy out of her shorts and flowery cotton undies and into the leather panties. They wouldn’t win any prizes for comfort, that was certain. The stockings weren’t half bad, although attaching them to the garters was a skill that must have taken time to master.
The net result of her efforts, once she looked in a mirror, was some strange kind of badass mother with a clueless expression. No, that wouldn’t do. She hardened her facial muscles, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. There. That was more like it. Even better, she imitated a vampy, duck-bill expression she’d seen Marissa Starr make in some magazine in the checkout aisle. Perfect.
“Hello, Yvonne,” she told her reflection. “I’m Tasha Pike.” She twisted to check out her backside in the mirror. “I’m no ordinary actress, I’m a film star.” She blew a kiss, like Marilyn Monroe.
You look like a fool, a voice whispered in the back of her head.
But no, no, she couldn’t. This was what movie star girlfriends looked like. This was the sort of woman who looked good on a red carpet. Heck, even Jenny had told her so in her note. “Remember, you’re not Miss Pike there.” She certainly wasn’t.
She turned to look at herself squarely in the mirror, planting h
er hands on her hips. This was a vacation, all right. A vacation from herself.
“I can do this,” she said. “I can make this work.”
She made another supposedly sexy face in the mirror. It was only summer. She didn’t have to be herself. No one was around who would hold her accountable. And this fling with Spence couldn’t last.
She froze, her vixen face dropping. It couldn’t last. No matter how much a little part of her might want it to. Girls like her didn’t end up with movie stars. Loserdom was a curse she couldn’t get away from, no matter how many years she saved up for it. Her heart sank.
She cleared her throat and turned away from the mirror, pushing that thought aside by wishing she had a pair of really high heels. She didn’t have anything like that, though. Not even back home.
It didn’t matter. She squared her shoulders and walked across the room on her tip-toes, as if she was wearing the most stylish heels known to man. She took a breath before throwing open the door. This was what movie stars wanted. This was what her best friend thought she should be. She was going to nail it.
The homey scent of coffee and fresh waffles wafting up the stairs did not help her buy into the role of siren. She slowed as she made her way down the stairs, her stomach grumbling under the tight leather. No, bombshells didn’t get hungry. The kind of woman that Yvonne wanted Spence to date probably didn’t eat at all. She probably only drank protein shakes and popped vitamins. She reached the bottom of the stairs and stood taller, threw her head back. She could do this. For Spence. For her.
Mustering up her last ounce of courage, she spun into the doorway, stretching her back against the frame, raising one arm above her head. Gloves, she needed elbow-length leather gloves. Oh well.
“Good morning, sailor,” she said in her lowest, huskiest voice. Where the hell did that come from.
Spence turned from the counter where he was making waffles. “Goo—” He stopped dead, mouth hanging open, eyes popping. The spatula clattered out of his hand onto the counter.
Tasha smiled—quickly shifting from the dorky grin that came naturally to a smoky, suggestive moue. That was exactly the reaction she’d been going for. She could do this. She could be the right kind of girlfriend. Spence’s mouth continued to drop as he scanned her from head to toe. Vivid, unapologetic lust painted his face, making her feel almost as sexy as the stupid corset warranted. A bulge was already starting to form in his baggy pajama shorts. Excellent.
“Jenny sent me a little present,” she said, rubbing her back against the wall as though it was a stripper pole. She pushed away and started across the room to him.
“Jenny?” he croaked the word, then cleared his throat. “Is that what kind of taste she has?”
What kind of taste Jenny had? No, it was who she, Miss Tasha Pike, needed to be.
“Like it?” she flirted, swaying across the room until she was close enough for him to grab.
His eyes stayed exactly where they should—on the girls. Every breath she took pushed her breasts closer to the brink of spilling out the top of the corset. In actuality, it pinched, and she could hardly move or breathe. It was hot, too, but not the good kind. Her skin couldn’t breathe. Then again, she didn’t suppose you were supposed to stay dressed in one of these things for long.
“Um.” Spence finally got around to answering her question, as soon as his eyes were back in his head. “Like it?”
He reached out to rest both hands at her sides, stroking his way up the leather toward her breasts over the studs. It would have been great, except the sensation was dulled by the leather. She pretended that she loved it anyhow and made a cooing, porn-star sound in the back of her throat.
Spence’s lips twitched to a grin. Not the kind of grin that said he wanted to bang her on the kitchen counter. “Interesting.” He tugged her close, running his hands over her back and down to her backside. Now that she could feel. He cupped her ass and pulled her hips into his erection.
It would have been perfect, everything she was going for, except that he started chuckling. He kissed her, wet and open-mouthed, but she could feel the vibrations of his laughter blossoming out from his chest. Laughter directed straight at her, the one making a fool of herself.
She pushed back, breaking away from him and backpedaling until she reached the sink. Her expression had dropped from the siren she was going for to something that made Spence’s face pinch in question, so she overdid it to get her image back.
“Isn’t this everything a hot star like you has always wanted?” she asked. She did her best impersonation of a sexy model pose, sticking one leg out and bending back over the sink. Her balance wasn’t great, though, and she ended up looking like a spastic duck.
“You’re what I’ve always wanted,” he told her, laughter and tenderness in his voice.
Dammit, no, that was not what she wanted to hear…even though it was. He took a step closer to her, the animal lust leaving his expression, only to be replaced by something warm, yet pitying. She struck another sexy pose.
“Forget that boring teacher,” she said. “For the rest of the summer, I’m Tash. Just Tash. And I’m all yours.”
She met him as he reached her, stretching her arms up his chest and lifting a knee to his hip when he caught her around the waist. She grabbed handfuls of his hair and yanked him down for a kiss.
It would have been perfect and hot and bold, except for Spence’s tight laughter.
“What?” she demanded, pulling back. He wouldn’t let her peel all the way away from him this time, and he grabbed her leg to keep it where it was at his hip. “Isn’t this the sort of thing you like?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “If you like it.”
“Isn’t this the sort of thing Yvonne would like?”
His smile crumbled. “Only if you were an A-lister,” he answered with more than a tinge of bitterness.
That was it, then. She could dress up all she wanted, but underneath the leather and studs, she would never be Marissa Starr, or any other kind of star.
She tried to pull away. Spence wouldn’t let her go. His arm around her waist held her close and his hand gripped her thigh as though he meant business.
“You do look amazing in that, Tasha,” he said, emphasizing her full name. “And as soon as this batch of waffles is finished, I have half a mind to take you over to the sofa and see how amazing you look out of that.”
“You don’t have to,” she mumbled. “It’s got crotchless panties.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, his cock jumped against her. The rest of him wasn’t so enthusiastic.
“I don’t need you to dress or be like this to get me hot under the collar, you know. You do that plenty on your own.”
“Don’t you want to be with someone sexy and famous? Someone who can help your career?”
He frowned, his hold on her going uncomfortably tight. “That was Yvonne talking, not me.”
“But isn’t she right? Who am I to—”
“You’re the woman I like, the woman I want.”
“Yeah, but, isn’t every man’s dream to have the sexy siren? You’re at the top of the pecking order. Isn’t that what you want?”
The waffle-iron clicked. With an irritated sigh, Spence let her go so that he could tend to breakfast. Tasha stood where she was—rippling with anxiety and desperation—as he pried fresh waffles out of the iron and slapped them on a plate. He was mad now, and it was her fault. She’d screwed things up somehow. Part of her wanted to demand that he tell her what she’d done. The rest of her wanted to run back upstairs to hide.
As soon as the waffles were taken care of and the iron turned off, Spence twisted to face her.
“I know what this is about,” he said, his irritation switching to a serious smolder so fast that she wondered if he was acting.
“You do?” she asked, too close to a squeak.
“Yeah. This is about the roles we’re supposed to play, the expectations we’re supposed to have.” He reached for the hem o
f his t-shirt, yanking it off over his head and throwing it on the floor.
Tasha’s mouth went dry. Damn, he was sexy. He flexed to show off the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, stalking closer to her like a god in heat.
“I’m supposed to be the oversexed, suave celebrity, aren’t I?” he said, pursuing as Tasha inched away. “I’m supposed to be the kind of guy who wants to fuck models in my trailer, right?”
She winced at his use of ‘fuck.’ It didn’t sound like him at all. He backed her all the way to the edge of the counter, then scooped her into his arms.
“Yeah?” she squeaked.
“And you’re supposed to be the nubile vixen just aching for it, aren’t you?”
She tried to form words, but with his arms crushing her against his bare chest and pressing her into the edge of the counter at the same time, all she could manage was a strangled, “Mmm hmm.”
“All right then,” he growled. “Let’s do it.”
“Do wh—”
Before she could blurt out the question, he brought his mouth crashing down over hers with bruising intensity. He devoured her like the waffles on the counter behind them. Her heart ricocheted around her chest and she wanted to scream, but not necessarily for the good reasons.
No, this was who she was supposed to be. She needed to get into the part.
“Oh Spence,” she cooed when he let her up for air.
He let out a breath that might have been a stifled laugh or might have been a hiss of complaint. “Give it to me, baby,” he demanded, nipping at her neck before claiming her mouth again. His tongue was probing before she could catch up.
He didn’t stop there. Grasping her around the waist, he hoisted her up to sit on the countertop, then pushed her legs apart. She gasped and her eyes flew wide as the motion put the crotchless panties to their intended use.
“Are you wet for me, baby?” he growled. His hands splayed along her thighs, inching toward her center.
Maybe a little? She glanced down to check.
Summer with a Star (Second Chances Book 1) Page 12