His eyes sparkle as they run over me, this time with heat. Is he imagining how I look in a bikini? He’s about to find out what a two thousand dollar swimsuit can do to a body that’s been tweaked and sculpted to perfection. He doesn’t know that I don’t have to imagine the gift his sport gave the universe when it formed him. As much as I’m loving the button-down, I’d much prefer it off. But I hadn’t been thinking about that when I made the suggestion. Well, not entirely. Mostly, an activity gives me a buffer. Stillness is the enemy. I’m not ready for him to learn the truth about Genevieve Fox.
That she’s no one.
“Where should I change?” he asks, holding up the shorts in his hand.
“Oh, right. There’s a bathroom just through that corridor, or you’re welcome to use the pool house. There’s a full dressing area, sauna, and shower there.”
He nearly winces at that. “Bathroom is fine,” he says with a quick smile.
I force one as well, clasping my hands behind me as he takes off down the hall. Am I blowing it? I feel like I’m blowing it, but I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. Sexy outfit: check. Perfect hair: check. Luxurious mansion: check. Plus, I’m one of the biggest names in the world. I’m any young, available guy’s fantasy wet dream. He wouldn’t have come if he wasn’t interested. He certainly wouldn’t have broken things off with that other woman for this. And yet… you’re no one. Coldness washes through me. What if he’s already figured that out? What if the shine of Genevieve Fox isn’t enough for once? I don’t get close enough for people to see past it, so this would be uncharted waters. I’ll have to turn up the dial even more to keep that from happening.
Wine. Oliver may not drink, but I have to.
While he changes, I open the bottle he brought and give myself a healthy pour. I haven’t eaten much today, so hopefully the alcohol goes straight to my head. Just enough to take the edge off so I stop thinking so much around him. People love me because I seem shallow. Shallow is easy. Safe. I satisfy expectations. I smile and make them important by association. This constant saturation with Oliver isn’t going to work if I have any hope of keeping him. He can’t know what the mirror knows. That I’m not shallow; I’m empty.
By the time he returns, I’ve polished off one glass and poured another. For someone who doesn’t drink, he has good taste in wine.
And swimsuits. Holy…
He comes down the hall all quiet confidence in navy blue board shorts riding low on his hips. It’s like watching a walking anatomy diagram. Here lies the rectus abdominus. Over here you will see the external oblique. One full glass of wine on an empty stomach thinks that’s incredibly hilarious, and quite possibly, the sexiest thing it’s ever seen. It also wants to touch. Badly.
“You’re laughing. That’s not a good sign,” he says, joining me in the kitchen.
I shake my head, the wine now fully kicking in. “Only about the fact that you’re pretty much perfect, aren’t you.”
“Perfect?” he echoes, amused. He scans me for a second before his gaze slides to the open bottle. “Ah. The wine is okay, then?”
“The wine is great! Let’s swim!”
I grab his hand and drag him toward the glass doors leading to the pool deck.
He chuckles, and I already feel better at the sound. Laughter I can work with. Lust, I live for, and yank my short dress over my head as soon as we step onto the patio. I feel his stare before I see it. Good. I take my time with the seduction, stripping slowly, and bending low to drop the discarded garment on a chaise lounge. When I look back his eyes have flared hot.
“Pool is heated, so the water should be nice,” I say, brushing past him to step into it. When he doesn’t follow, I turn back and toss my most seductive of seductive looks. His gaze runs over me again, hungry and intense, but his smile dims the longer he stares. Something isn’t right.
“What’s wrong? Do you not like my suit?” I bat my eyes to extra-flirt levels.
Of course he likes it. It was designed to make guys like him fall at the feet of girls like me. I wore it for him. For this very moment where I had no intention of showing mercy. Except he’s not falling. Or moving. Or speaking. Or doing any of the things I need him to be doing right now. If anything, he’s backed further from the edge of the pool.
“You look great,” he says, but there’s nothing flirtatious in his tone.
“Then what is it? You know how to swim, right? An elite athlete like you?” I tease. Or the wine does. I can’t tell if that was a good line or not. Maybe not when his gaze darkens slightly. “If not, I can show you.” I lower my lids to sultry and jut out my chest, but the reaction I get is the opposite of what I expect. It’s like the harder I try, the less interested he is. A small ember of panic ignites in my belly.
I force a smile. “Did I do something wrong?” I try for flirty, but it’s hard with him staring at me like that. His expression is severe, confused.
“The mirror in the bathroom,” he says finally. “Why is it covered?”
I freeze. All the wine in my head drains to my stomach in a violent rush of nausea. He tilts his head when I don’t respond, studying me. I don’t like it. I feel naked, exposed. Like he sees past the shine to the dirt beneath it. He softens after another moment, and I hate his look of pity even more.
His sigh. I’ve never hated a sound so much in my life.
“Look, Genevieve, you
