I’m stuck in a shame spiral, and the living room isn’t the best place to mope. Not when men with perfect bodies fill this house.
A man with dirty-blond hair and chiseled abs relaxes with me on the couch, mashing his thumbs on a controller. I keep my gaze focused on the iPad even though I want to marvel at the thick cords of muscle wrapping around his arms. I met him the first day but can’t remember his name. He talks with a limited vocabulary filled with dudes and bros. My nickname for him is Ditzy.
Not all of them are as cheerful as Ditzy. Snoopy, what I call the defensive midfielder with a ruddy beard, is my least favorite. He’s always watching me with a frown as though I’m up to no good. My brother’s number one brown-noser.
This morning I stumbled into a bathroom with a naked guy passed out on the floor—Tipsy—who recovers at the breakfast bar, a beer bottle wetting his lips.
Through the windows, two of my roommates practice on the lawn. An olive-skinned man runs through the grass shirtless. He has the broadest chest of all of them—Bulky. So far, my favorite is nowhere to be found. Grayson is Dimples. I remember his name, but it’s only fair to give him a nickname, too.
And the mere thought of him sends a warm shiver through my body.
He kissed me. Slipped his tongue in my mouth. Offered himself to me.
He wants a friends-with-benefits arrangement. A healthy, sane woman would say yes. A thrill greater than anything I’ve ever experienced before runs through my spine at the idea of sneaking around in the dead of night, slipping into Grayson’s bedroom, fucking him in the pool with the water lapping around us. Wherever and whenever.
It’d be perfect if there weren’t so many strings attached. Grayson hates Henry. My brother loathes him back. It’s messy from every angle. And I ignored the warning Henry gave me. What is wrong with me?
You need to get laid.
A scream erupts from Ditzy’s side of the couch. He flings the controller onto the table, staring at the television. "This is bullshit!"
He grabs the remote and stabs at the buttons. The screen changes to a sports channel where a familiar woman splashes across the tube. She leans out of a taxi, shades propped on her head as the driver wheels her suitcases toward Los Albos Ranch.
"Hey, that’s me!" My shout rings throughout the house.
Below the photograph of me scrolls a text in bold: MYSTERY GIRL STAYING AT SANTA BARBARA GRIZZLIES RANCH.
"What the hell?" I turn to Ditzy. "Don’t they know I’m Henry’s sister?"
He shrugs.
My mouth goes dry as I watch the series of photos, grimacing at the unflattering close-ups. There must have been paparazzi camped outside. I didn’t think to check and probably wouldn’t have noticed. My spine tingles with unease.
"That’s creepy as hell." I stare at a woman who spends five minutes speculating on my identity before the gossip shifts to another celebrity.
I should’ve expected this, I guess. My brother is an international sports star. He’ll have journalists reporting everything from his women to his bowel movements. Reminds me of the long talks Dad had with Henry about what it meant to be a Pardini. The luxury and the fame comes at a cost. There is tremendous responsibility, and it means an existence under constant media scrutiny. It's a life my father made sure I’d never have.
"Turn that off," a grumpy voice says.
Henry stands at the kitchen island, spreading mustard on two slices of bread as he makes lunch. He’s scowling, for a change. My mind hunts for a nickname.
"I said, lock it up."
Ditzy sighs, stabbing a button.
The screen goes blank, and Henry resumes his unhappy assembly of a sandwich.
Surly. Definitely Surly. I cross my arms. "I didn’t think they’d photograph me, sorry."
He shrugs. "Doesn’t matter who you are. Each of us has rabid fanbases entitled to every private detail of my damn life."
I won’t point out that his fans made him into a multi-millionaire. "They don’t know I exist, do they?"
The look he gives me across the kitchen frosts the air. "No. Trust me, that’s a good thing."
If the public had an inkling who I was, they’d approach me on the streets. My email would blow up with questions about Henry. I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. Being the relative of an international soccer star has its downsides, I guess.
I didn't see it that way. I was always proud of him, and I dreamed of the day I’d be allowed to bask in his limelight. When he was picked to represent America in the World Cup, I wanted to shout to the rooftops that he was my brother, and then I heard he got married. The news was splashed on the front page of a tabloid rag with a grainy photo of Henry kissing a woman I’d never met. My only living relative hadn’t invited me to his wedding.
That stung. Big time.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, though. When Henry talks about his family in interviews, it’s always his wife, his father, not the sister who held his hand on long walks to Dolores Park. I don’t exist to him, and why should I? He doesn’t remember the early years before Dad pushed me aside for his son.
Those days flash through my head like a sepia-toned movie. Mom would push him in his stroller up those steep hills, and when we sat down for a picnic, I’d shove squares of cheese into my little brother’s mouth. I loved him, and Dad turned Henry against me.
My eyes mist with the ghosts of memories as Henry bites into his oversized sandwich. He talks in between mouthfuls. "Listen, my wife’s in town."
"Oh!"
"We're going out for dinner."
He’ll ask me to come with to meet my sister-in-law. Maybe this is his way of apologizing for not inviting me to his wedding—
Henry glances at me. "I was hoping you'd clean up the guys’ rooms while I’m gone."
"Ah." Forgot I was the Help. I open my mouth, not certain whether I’ll laugh or cry.
"We’ve been having this ant problem, and I think it’s from the trash in their bedrooms."
My lips pull into a painful smile. "Sure thing, Henry."
"Thanks." He breezes through the kitchen with his empty plate, dumping the crumbs in the garbage before sliding his dish into the sink.
I stand, hating myself for being so weak. "Will I ever get to meet her?"
Henry’s back stiffens. "I don’t understand why that’s necessary."
"Come on, Henry. I’m your sister."
My spirits fall into a lake of liquid tar as he lets out an aggravated sigh. "I’ll think about it."
"You want us to know each other, right?" I search his face for the little boy I loved, but it’s plain to see he has no love for me.
He checks the time. "I gotta run. Do not forget about the rooms."
I swallow my pain. "'Course."
I nudge the sixth door open—thank God I’m almost finished. The last room is tidy, with a queen-sized sleigh bed. A pile of folded clothes sits on his dresser. The hamper in the closet is free of dirty clothing. I spot balled aluminum on the desk by the mattress and add it to the garbage. My eyes scan for my trash and pass over an unopened envelope addressed to Grayson Shaw from Los Angeles Labcorp.
I avert my gaze. What the hell is it? Results from an STD test? A blood panel for cholesterol? Whatever it is, it’s none of your damn business.
So this is Grayson’s room. I was wondering which belonged to him and secretly prayed it wasn’t the one whose wastebasket was filled with used condoms.
A sigh rolls into my ear, making my spine tingle. "Just because we made out doesn’t give you the right to snoop through my things."
Speak of the devil.
Grayson lurches through the doorway, and he's not pleased. "Been looking for you all day. Do I even want to know what’s in that bag?"
My face grows hot. "I'm cleaning the rooms. Henry says there’s an ant problem."
His scowl darkens. "He should learn to pick up the phone and call pest control."
"God, will you give it a rest with that? I don’t mind." I tie
a knot on the bag. "Seriously, this is way better than the shack I would’ve ended up at if he refused to let me stay. I have it good."
My grip on the plastic loosens as Grayson approaches. I open my mouth to breathe, but he steals the oxygen. "Did you find anything interesting while snooping?"
"Honest to God, I just wanted to tidy up."
"So you didn’t run into my collection of handcuffs and ball gags under the bed? That’s a relief."
"I’m glad. That’d ruin my image of you."
He grins ear to ear. "Which is what?"
"If you get your rocks off being tied up, how alpha can you be?"
Stop flirting with him, for God’s sake.
Grayson’s hot gaze is like a lover’s caress. "In your dreams, Saffie. Or maybe in mine." He winks at me. "I’m not into being restrained, but I have to admit having you at my mercy sounds fucking sexy."
"What did you say?"
His voice is heated oil running down my sides, coating my body. "The bed’s right there. Did you consider my offer?"
I glance at the bed as though Grayson must be exaggerating its existence, and stagger back as he moves forward. "I thought about it. Tried not to, but I couldn’t help it."
A feline grin staggers across his face as he touches my waist. "That settles that."
I taste his breath before pulling away. "We can’t."
His irresistible voice rolls over me. "We’re two consenting adults, Saffie. Of course we can."
"There are seven other men here, and he does not want me anywhere near you."
"Your brother doesn’t own you."
My heart hammers as I step from Grayson. "No, but he owns this house, and I need a place to stay. I can’t afford to be kicked out."
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets with a look that says it plain—There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone. "If he threw you out, I’d let you back in. I’d insist on you staying in my room, though. Point is, you have somewhere to stay no matter what."
The reasons to say no keep disappearing. "Stop flirting with me."
"How about this? I’ll stop when you will."
"Fine." I grab the bag. "Did you need me for anything else?"
His eyes shine with desire. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"You promised."
"I can't ignore your fuck-me eyes, babe. You're looking at me as though you want to be thrown on my bed."
If only I could calm the fire blazing my cheeks. "No, I’m not."
He smiles as though to assure me it’s our little secret. "Anyway, Titus and I wanted to know if you’ll be participating in the beer-pong tournament tonight."
Seven hot men and binge drinking? Sounds like a recipe for a disaster. "I think I’ll pass."
"Henry won’t be here. You can let loose and have fun for one night." He pauses. "There’ll be barbecue."
Sold. "I’ll watch you guys make drunken fools out of each other, but I’m not playing."
Grayson’s smile makes the breath catch in my chest. I need to get the hell out of this room before I do something stupid, like kiss him. I reach for the door, but he’s already opening it for me. He closes it before I can squeeze out. "There’s no expiration date on my offer, Saffie. Think about it."
Which one? "Not going to happen."
"We’ll see."
Watching a group of men play beer pong is as exciting as it sounds unless they’re all professional athletes with a reluctance to wear clothing. They could be sweeping the concrete, and it’d be captivating.
The night’s balmy air fills with raucous, male laughter, and I’m sleepy with the weight of two beers. It’s the perfect weather for drifting off, but I keep jerking awake from the splashing and screams of victory. Giving up, I watch them heckle each other, splash in the pool, and cook links of sausage. It looks like a scene from a men’s swimwear fashion magazine.
Unsurprisingly, Tipsy is winning the beer-pong tournament. Grayson plays opposite Tipsy, wearing nothing but a pair of blue-and-black board shorts. His handsome smile twists into a feral grin as he lobs the white ball into a cup at the far end, the liquid splashing all on the table.
The skies erupt with hand slaps and cheers. I shake my head and return my attention to the Abigail Graham book on my phone. It’s a romance novel.
What I should do is research for jobs, not fantasize about sex. Specifically, what it would be like with Grayson. Judging by his six-pack, he has the stamina of a horse. I bet he could go for hours, and it’s easy to imagine because I’ve already seen him naked. He’s a big guy. How would that feel?
You’re perverted. Sick.
I skip a steamy scene in Abigail’s book because I can’t handle descriptions of sex right now.
"Hey!" a voice barks. "Stop watching porn and play with us."
How does he know? My fingers turn white as I grip my phone, wheeling my gaze to the pong table.
"Just kidding." Grayson’s wide smirk flashes in my direction. He beckons. "Come on!"
"No thanks," I shout. "I’m reading about two men going at it."
The other guys heckle me, their shouts growing louder. I frown at my iPhone, squinting at the small text, but I can’t concentrate with the noise.
I stand from the lounge chair to earsplitting whistles and join Grayson. It feels dangerous to stand in his presence, as though he might lure me with a glance. I’ll do something stupid, like give in to the butterflies and graze my lips over that smirking mouth. My brother warned what’d happen if I broke the rules, but Grayson’s too gorgeous to ignore.
It’s hard to imagine him doing anything mean spirited. He’s the very image of perfection. Grayson goes with the flow. Everybody has demons, but Grayson looks like he flies above them without a care in the world.
I wish I could do that. "All right, I’m here."
"Took you long enough," he says. "Your turn."
The guys crowd the table, laughing at me.
I sneer at them. "You’re all degenerates."
"We already know that," Ditzy pipes up, not missing a beat. "Go."
I haven’t played this game since school, and it was only a handful of times. Never was the partying type. Studying devoured the majority of my time, so I missed out on the whole college experience.
They gaze at me, waiting. "I don’t remember what I’m supposed to do!"
"You’ve been watching us for an hour," Grayson says with a lilt in his voice.
He expected me to pay attention? "Yeah, I wasn’t focused on the minutia of the game."
"Maybe if we wore shirts you would’ve absorbed some of the rules." He grins, offering me the ball again. "Go on, take it. Let’s not pretend it’s the first time you’ve handled one of these."
Balls. He’s talking about his balls. "You’re so funny it hurts."
His voice deepens as I pluck the firm plastic from his palm. "Wrap your little fingers around it, but be gentle. It’s sensitive."
"Are you giving me instructions for fondling you?" I hiss in an undertone.
He grins. "I don't understand what you mean."
Sure you don’t. "Stop breaking my concentration."
"Sorry, I didn’t realize I was so distracting."
"It has nothing to do with your looks." I glare at him even though I know I’m wrong. "More with your lips flapping."
"Not a big talker, eh? I’ll keep that in mind for later."
God, shut up.
I let the ball soar into the air with a quick flick of my wrist. It flies over the table and bounces on the concrete. Male voices ring with laughter through the backyard. My cheeks burn.
Grayson fetches it. "Guess you could use a little practice. Here." He drops it in my hands. "Don’t be afraid to play with it."
He won’t stop with the goddamn innuendos because he knows they’re getting to me. Pretty soon I’ll think of a man’s testicles every time I see a ping-pong table, and it’ll be his fault. Blood churns under my skin, which feels too warm.
The smooth pl
astic rolls between my fingers as Grayson nods encouragingly. "There you go."
"This game sucks." I pick up the plastic cup of beer and drain its contents.
"Only losers talk like that."
I put it down. "And you need to stop talking as though we’re on a porn set."
"I have no idea what you mean," Grayson says, voice shaking with mirth. "Just trying to keep you from humiliating yourself in front of the guys."
I snort. "Oh, you think not winning this stupid game is embarrassing?"
"You’re the one with the law degree, and you’re losing to a bunch of brainless jocks."
For God’s sake, I can throw a ball in a cup. "Two out of three."
"That’s not how beer pong works, cheater."
Alcohol chugs through my veins with surprising swiftness. Guess it’s been a long day, and I haven’t eaten much. I ignore the guys crowding the table and focus. Meatheads all over the world play this sport. Like he said, it can’t be that hard. I just need a little less power.
I lob it. The ball bounces once, and it’s way too low. It dribbles on the surface as Grayson chuckles into my ear.
I’ll throttle him. "Okay, I give up."
"Sour grapes!" Grayson calls after me as I return to my lounge chair by the pool.
My mood darkens as I take a long sip of my forgotten Moscow Mule, tapping the copper mug with a finger. Grayson meant nothing nasty, but the jibe about a law degree struck a sore spot. I spent months agonizing over practice LSATs, pouring hundreds of dollars into cram schools to ace that test, followed by another two years of study at law school and the bar exam. I learned a lot, but I haven’t lived.
And what did it get me besides an empty savings account?
I shove those thoughts away as Tipsy makes a beeline for me, a tray of hot dogs balanced on his palm. They’re garnished with ketchup and mustard.
I choose a blackened sausage wrapped in a toasted bun, mouth watering at the savory smell. "Thanks!" I bite into it, moaning in pleasure. "Really good!"
He smiles, saluting me with a pair of tongs as he walks to the pong table. Grayson proposes a break as the aroma saturates the air. He grabs two dogs and eats half of the first before sitting next to me.
The Secret Arrangement Page 24