by K. Bromberg
Zane is still a jerk, but we’re stuck together. It’s going to be a long eight weeks walking on egg shells but I can do it for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Forcing myself to let it go for the time being, I walk into the bedroom without acknowledging Zane at all. He’s sitting at the desk with the blue glow of the laptop creating a halo around his head. I start opening and shutting the drawers of the mini-dressers to try and find my pajamas. It takes me a second but I find them and then head to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
I take my time removing my make-up, washing my face, and changing into my pajamas to the slow rocking of the bus as it makes its way down the highway. When I emerge from the bathroom, Zane is standing there, midway through pulling his arms out of his dress shirt.
We both freeze. Our eyes meet. His stutter over me temporarily before they regain their customary guarded edge. Frozen in indecision, our eyes hold as he removes his shirt and lays it on the bed. There’s a ghost of a smirk.
“You dropped something.” He says the words without any emotion and then tosses something to me that was sitting on the bed.
In reflex, I try to catch whatever it is and in the process drop everything in my hands—dirty clothes, shoes, cell phone—including the box he threw. When I bend over to see what it is, every single part of me flushes a deep red.
And I want to kill my mother when I stare at the ‘Trojans’ label on the box of condoms looking back up at me.
Flustered and more than embarrassed, I gather everything on the floor in a frenzy and try to bury the box of condoms in the mess of clothes. When I stand up, Zane has moved in front of me, bare chested with abs and tan skin and biceps on display, and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Here I was thinking your big plans between shows was knitting sweaters . . . guess you never really know someone until you live with them.”
“It’s not what—that’s not what—they’re my mom’s.”
Oh. My. God. Did I really just say that?
Zane’s laugh rumbling around the small space tells me that in fact, I just did. I lower my eyes and look back at the pile of clothes—and condoms—and get a grip on my mortification.
Like it could get any worse . . .
“Missing something?” A lift of his eyebrows. A taunt in his smile.
I snap my head up to find that bare chest eye-level, way too close, and the black, lacey thong I’d taken off in the bathroom, currently hanging from the tip of his index finger.
I was wrong. It can get way worse.
How do you grab your used panties from a man and retain your dignity? It’s rather impossible. But I hold my chin high as my face probably turns a million shades of red, and I take the scrap of lace from him and add it to my pile.
More than done with this conversation in which I only served to embarrass myself further, I try to slink away without any more interaction with him.
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there with his head angled to the side, those green eyes of his searching mine. Everything about him is clouding my personal space in a way that makes every part of me beneath my sleep shorts and tank top become more than aware of everything about him.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“For a woman who has no problem speaking her mind, why does a little thing like a box of condoms and some sexy panties get your tongue in a twist?”
“I told you, they’re not mine.”
“The panties or the condoms?”
He’s loving every second of this. I see it in the way he twists his lips. The gleam in his eye. The smug expression on his face.
“The panties are mine.”
“Oh, and the condoms are your mom’s?”
“Yes. No.” I huff out an exasperated breath hating that the mere glimpse of his bare chest has me all flustered when I don’t get flustered. I rarely get embarrassed . . . and I sure as hell am never at a loss for words. “Just . . . never mind.”
“So who’s the lucky guy?” The single lift of one eyebrow asks way more than those five words do.
“Will you shush?” I part whisper, part warn as I look over my shoulder to the front of the bus. Sure the door is shut blocking us from seeing Mick, but just knowing he is there in such close quarters has me on edge.
“I asked who the guy is?”
“No one.”
“Oh, so you were planning on hooking up with someone during this trip then?” I start to refute him and he talks right over me. “How exactly were you thinking of doing that when you’re supposed to be with me?”
The rejection is on my tongue but you know what? Screw him. He had every intention of playing the same game during this trip . . . why is it okay for him and not for me?
Turn about’s fair play.
“Maybe the same way I’m more than certain you were planning on doing it.”
“And how’s that?” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Anywhere but this bus. How about that? Can we at least agree that the bus shall remain a skank-free zone?”
“Skank-free? Should I take offense to the fact that you assume any woman I’d take to my bed is a skank?”
“I call it like I see it,” I challenge.
He takes a step closer so that his stomach hits against my hands and only the ball of clothes in my arms between us. “First of all, Harlow . . . skanks aren’t my style. I like to work for what I get. Easy isn’t fun at all. Not for a guy like me.” His eyes flick down to my lips and then back up and I hate how that simple glance does things to my insides that I don’t want it to do. “And second, you seem to be the one holding a box of condoms . . . so either you like to be prepared . . . or you’re the easy one.”
“Screw you.” The words are out before I think properly and my body vibrates with anger.
He leans in and my breath hitches when for the slightest of seconds, I think he’s going to kiss me. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the warmth of it on my face, and remember all too vividly the adeptness of his kiss the other night. I tell myself I’ll push him away if he even tries . . . and then wonder if I really would.
“No worries there,” he whispers. “That’s not part of this deal.”
“Good.”
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Yes. Good.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to stay on your side of the bed and I’ll stay on mine.”
“Fine.” I don’t know why my feelings are hurt when I’m getting exactly what I want from him. Space. But . . . what exactly is his side and what is my side?
He remains inches from my face. My body reacting irrationally at that undertone of desire that any normal woman would feel when being stared down by a pair of emerald eyes and a body of cut perfection.
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
“It’s my space too, isn’t it?”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug before stepping back, eyes locked on mine, and unbuckles the belt on his slacks.
Walk away, Low.
And before I attempt to move, his pants drop to the ground. He’s standing there in a pair of black boxer briefs snug in all the right places, framed by a pair of strong thighs, and my eyes dip momentarily to the slight happy trail that dips beneath their waistband.
Who wouldn’t glance?
When I look back up, arrogance is etched in that handsome face of his, almost as if he’s asking if I like what I see, and a smile plays on his lips.
“If talking about condoms makes your cheeks flush, Harlow . . . then it’s going to be a long eight weeks for you.”
“For your information, it takes a lot more than condoms to make my cheeks red.”
“What does make you flush, then?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I say and make a show of looking him up and down. Of letting him know I’m taking a good look, before giving a subtle shake of my head like I couldn’t care less when holy shit the man has a body. Toned and tanned and tempting.
Without another word, I turn and head toward the front of the bus and the couch that’s positioned directly behind Mick. I have my dirty clothes in my hands along with the box of condoms that I could kill my mother over and all kinds of confusion in my head.
Like how I can dislike Zane so much and still find him charming and attractive while at the same time irritating and frustrating.
“Everything okay?” Mick asks as I drop my clothes on the floor beside the couch in as neat a pile as possible.
“Yes. Fine,” I murmur as I sink into the rich leather and feel the need to explain why I’m out here and not in there. “I don’t want the light from my kindle to bug him.”
My explanation sounds so ridiculous. Just another thing that doesn’t make any sense
But that seems to be par for the course today.
THERE ARE NUMEROUS ARTICLES ONLINE. One after another accompanied with pictures of Zane and I on stage last night. One where he pressed a kiss to my temple. Another where he was looking at me with adoration on his face that is so believable that if I didn’t know different, I’d buy it myself.
There are articles about the impending launch of SoulM8. A good start to the slow ramp up that Robert planned before we hit the morning shows halfway through the tour. Other articles have a quick mention about how notorious bachelor Zane Phillips has finally been caught. There are some of my shots from the Victoria’s Secret catalog shoot. A few comments about me, but none that I really mind since my past is far from newsworthy or scandalous.
The visibility is an unexpected side benefit of weaseling my way into this job. I knew I’d get a paycheck, I knew there would be an added visibility with the campaign that might help me get future jobs. What I didn’t expect was for people to have interest in who Zane Phillips was dating.
That was naïve on my part. I’d looked him up and read about his love interests, hadn’t I?
I keep scrolling and reading. There are lists of other companies that Zane has purchased, made successful, and then sold. A software company out of Silicon Valley that dealt with hospital scheduling. A gadget company that made some kind of car part. A computer hardware company that manufactured peripheral items. Every single company bought when they were about to go under and then resold a few years later at an astronomical profit.
But there is no mention of why Zane decided to come to the United States at the age of eighteen in the first place. No reference to the family he left behind or his home that he misses.
I click the back button on the browser and my eyes scan the various images of us on the screen.
We definitely look great together, so we’re putting on a good show. At least there’s that. Because everything else is fake and confusing.
Especially after how I woke up this morning.
The shuffling of feet pulls my attention away from the articles and to the man I’m now forever associated with. Zane’s head is down as he moves, a dark blue pair of gym shorts are slung low on his waist, and there is a mess of pillow creases on his cheeks.
The business mogul who looks like a harmless little boy you want to wrap your arms around.
Don’t be fooled, Low. He’ll be his surly self soon enough.
“Good morning.”
Zane grunts something incoherent and slides a glare my way as he shuffles from the back of the bus to the front area where I’m sitting enjoying my cup of coffee.
“We’re in Arizona.” I look out the window at the green of the golf course and tan of the desert around us in whatever resort’s parking lot we’re currently parked in. I can’t see a sign, but there is an abundance of golf carts on the green even at this early hour.
Another grunt and the pop of the Keurig as he clicks it down onto the K-cup.
“Do you play?”
Those green eyes of his angle my way. “Do you always talk this much in the morning?”
I glance down at my phone for the time. “It’s nine o’clock.”
“Right. The morning.” He shifts on his feet with impatience as he waits for his coffee to brew. “It’s early.”
“So do you play? I’ve always wanted to learn but never took the time to. It looks easy enough. I mean—”
“I’m not a morning person.” He glances my way from beneath a lock of hair that has fallen over his brow.
“Well, I am.” I smile brightly, more than happy to have found something that will annoy him.
He pulls his cup out from the device and I can’t help but notice the flex of his bicep when he brings it immediately up to his mouth. His hiss fills the room as his tongue burns, but the way he closes his eyes and savors that first sip leaves me to imagine how he’d look savoring other things.
Stop it. It was just a dream.
One dream where I imagined things about him I shouldn’t imagine. The feel of his weight on top of me. The scratch of the stubble on his chin as it rubs between my thighs. The warmth of his hands as they squeeze my nipples. The sound he makes as he comes.
“How about we just steer clear of each other until I’ve had a cup or three of coffee.” His gravelly voice says, interrupting my thoughts—of him.
“Yes. Sure. Okay.” I stumble over the words as I try to clear the dream from my mind that is much more vivid now that he’s standing in front of me. “How many is that?”
Another sip. Another sigh of satisfaction. “You’re perpetually cheerful, aren’t you?”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” He eyes me from above the rim, a warning to tone down the morning happiness.
“And this is how you always are in the morning? Grumpy?”
He nods and adjusts the waistband of his shorts that have fallen dangerously low. “Mm-hmm.”
“So no talking, no cheerfulness, no eye contact . . . what?”
One corner of his lip turns up slightly. “That’s a good start.”
I make a non-committal sound as I turn to stare out the window. There are foursomes in the distance on the green. Golf carts putt around here and there. “Maybe I’ll take a lesson today. Go to the driving range. It’s not like we don’t have time to kill.”
“Go for it.”
I take in a deep breath and realize I’m rambling because I don’t want to ask the one thing I’ve wanted to know since I woke up this morning.
“How’d I get in the bed?”
I think of that startled feeling I had when I woke up in a strange bed, in a new place. Then that sudden awareness of the even breathing next to me. The scent of shampoo and soap and man. And then when I had the courage to turn over ever so slowly, finding him lying on his back, arm thrown over his face, sheets pulled down to his waist.
“I worked late. Mick stopped to get fuel,” he says gruffly.
“What does that have to—”
“When Mick stopped for gas, you were out here. I’m the one who carried you to the back.” He pulls his eyes from the scenic course beyond the tinted windows of the coach. “So . . . mulligan.”
“Mulligan?” I ask as my mind stutters over the notion that he brought me to bed. No, not just brought me . . . but carried me.
“Yeah, it’s a golf term. You can figure it out from there.”
“So you do play?”
“I play a lot of things.” A slow smile slides on his lips before he turns around to the back of the coach.
I stare after him. Watch the curve of his ass as he moves, uncertain how I feel about the fact that he picked me up and carried me to bed.
Do I detect a chink in that grumpy armor of his?
The sink runs in the back of the bus, the sounds of teeth brushing commences, prompting me to pick up my phone to look up what mulligan means: when a player gets a second chance to perform a second move or action.
I stare at the definition. A second chance.
Is this Zane’s way of telling me he messed up last night? That he was being a jerk and knows it so he brought me to bed to call a truce of sorts?
Talk
about overthinking something, Harlow.
And yet . . . he said it. He left it open to interpretation.
Definitely a chink in that grumpy armor.
Isn’t that an unexpected surprise?
I WATCH HER.
I shouldn’t because with each passing second I just become more irate. More irritated. More everything when he puts his hands on her hips to show her how she needs to shift them to transfer her weight when she swings the club.
Fucking professional golfer my ass. More like professional asshole so he can play grab ass with all the clubhouse regulars. The lonely wives who frequent the country club to get a little added attention while their husbands spend hours occupied on the links.
But Harlow isn’t married and she isn’t hurting for attention. Dozens of pairs of eyes are watching her, elbows being nudged from one man to another.
She stands there in her pristine white shorts that display those mile long legs and a daisy yellow T-shirt that hugs every other part of her. She’s stunning in every way. But it’s her smile, her laugh, her carefree everything that makes people stare.
Like I am.
What I can’t figure out is if this whole innocent thing is genuine or just an act to make men like me think about her and bring out that side in us that makes us want to be the first to conquer and claim.
“What I wouldn’t give to have her play with my nine iron,” the man next to me says with a nudge of his elbow.
My fists clench but I don’t respond.
How can I when my mind has been in the same exact place more times than I care to count?
The pro’s hands are on her again. His chest is to her back as he reaches around and flanks her so that he can help her swing the club. They sway their bodies backwards, then forward. When they connect with the ball, it soars.
Harlow lets out a yelp of excitement and does a little dance to celebrate it. Her hips sway and arms go above her head. Her laugh carries so that even more people stop to appreciate the sight in front of them.
The only thing I hate more than the pro’s hands on her is how every man standing here is watching her.
Christ, if they only knew they could look up photos of her wearing lingerie online . . .