school swim class. You know how it feels the first time you’re in your swimsuit with boys who notice?
Yeah.
This is me.
Only, I’m an adult, fake engaged to a billionaire hottie, and this is—whatever this is—it’s not how I imagined life in my mid-twenties.
Shoot me now.
Ward’s gaze falls from my eyes to my lips, where it lingers for a few seconds before slipping down to the bow flowing from my neckline. He stretches both arms across the gutter, meaning he now has an arm behind me.
Red alert.
Something red in the clear water catches my attention, all right.
Bright red swim trunks with a firm, unmistakable bulge. My eyes linger there too long.
Is that—did I cause that?
Frick. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m gawking at his rather impressive—um, assets.
“You’ll be happy to know this is working,” he says.
“It is?”
“Mrs. Winthrope must have put in a good word for us. Ross invited us out on his yacht tomorrow evening. I hope you don’t mind coming out on such short notice.”
“That’s what you’re paying me for.” I nod. “It’s fine. I’m glad all this acting is paying off,” I lie.
And it’s not the glad part I’m lying about. It’s the acting.
When I’m alone with him in his stripped-down wonder, nothing feels like pretend anymore.
He’s quiet for a minute.
“Paige, I want this to be your victory, too. Is Brandt Ideas still in your future? You’re going to be a millionaire. I’m not sure why it would be.”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I’m still trying to get through one day at a time.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll do with the money? It’s none of my business, of course, but you should consider investing anything left over from the studio. If you need help with that, I have people who get paid very well to beat the market.”
“Thanks. I haven’t figured that out either, but I do know this will be the first time where I’m fully in charge of my life.”
He smiles, his dark hair hanging over his eyes, dousing my heart in flames.
“Hard to believe. Seems like you’ve been in charge for a while.”
“My parents met at college. It was kind of expected that my sister and I would go to Northwestern, too. So, I just did. I majored in art. They wanted another MBA. There was always this pressure to keep up with the other side of our family...”
“Oh, yeah. Your pop star cousin and the author, right?”
“Yep. They hoped I’d somehow wind up with money like Milah and Liv, but without the scandals, much less the dangerous situations they were in,” I tell him. “Dad would’ve helped me set up an art business after I graduated, but I didn’t want to owe my parents anything. I signed up with freelance agencies a semester before I graduated and tried to build clients. Graphic design and websites were still art, but it’s not my thing. Brandt Ideas was closer to my interests, and I loved working with Beatrice. But I don’t get the chance to create for myself as often as I’d like.”
“You’re stubborn as hell, and that’s a compliment. Grit’s one thing money can’t buy,” he says, his eyes flashing with this mad respect that warms every bit of me. “So you’d go straight for sculpture if you get your own studio, huh?”
I nod, secretly flattered he remembers.
“Do you have anything I can see? Examples?”
“Yeah, my phone’s on the lounge chair. Hang on.”
We climb out of the pool together. He picks up the oversized towel I left on the chair and wraps it around me, melting those goosebumps with a heat so divine it hurts.
My thighs pinch together as I grab my phone, open my photo album, and hand it to him.
“Here,” I say. “Have a look.”
He winces as he slides his finger across the screen a few times, taking in my early works.
“What?” I start laughing at how pained he looks and slap his chest. “You’re adorable. You must have found some abominations. It’s funny watching you try to keep a straight face.”
“Were you trying to butcher Tim Burton?” he jokes.
“Practice makes perfect, Wardhole. Keep going.” I wait, watching anxiously as he flips on through the gallery.
His expression softens. “Hmm. This looks like the piece in front of one of the corporate buildings Grandma designed. She modeled it after the Trojan horse.”
I lean over to see what he’s talking about and grin. The real horse statue has perennial flowering vines falling down from inside, a homage to hidden peace instead of grim-faced