do our job, go home . . . but we all have such great chemistry that I . . . really do miss them when the season is over.”
“Just because all good things must come to an end doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to mourn them.”
“You’re right.” Lord knew I was in mourning.
“Besides, you’ll be back on set next year.” Sal spooned some fruit onto my plate. “Here, try the melons. They are fabulous.”
The melons were, in fact, fabulous.
After Sal left, insisting on taking the plates and basket back to the main kitchen for me, I curled up on the deep little love seat by the empty fireplace and tried to read. But my mind kept wandering, distracted by thoughts of thick thighs and tight abs.
I didn’t know what the hell was the matter with me. I’d seen naked men before. Hell, Saint had the body of a god, and we did endless scenes together half-naked without me even blinking. He was just scenery as far as I was concerned. Greg the asshole had a spectacular body as well, one I appreciated just fine—well, before I found out it was inhabited by a cheating dickhead.
But this hot, pulsing memory of Lucian naked disturbed the hell out of me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to run my tongue up the neat valley between his abs to collect those drops of water, put my mouth on his tight nipple and flick it, make him groan and shudder.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I exclaimed, tossing my Kindle aside and getting up. Reading was a lost cause. I needed air.
Since I couldn’t get the image of Lucian out of my head, I would exorcise it by facing the scene of the crime; I would go swimming. Maybe a cool dunk in water would wash away my sin of voyeurism.
Deciding to ignore the bikinis I’d brought, I put on a conservative pale-blue retro one-piece that I could swim in without worrying about anything riding up or slipping. I was well aware of the hypocrisy of not wanting to flaunt my body to any potential observers when I was guilty of gawking the night before. But I wasn’t trying to get attention. I wanted to swim.
Sure you do, Em. Keep telling yourself that’s all you want.
I told my inner voice to shut the hell up and slipped a yellow sundress over my head. Slathered in sunscreen and floppy hat firmly in place, I grabbed my pool bag and headed out.
The grounds surrounding the main house were empty. In the distance, I heard the sound of a lawn mower or maybe hedge clippers, so there were people around somewhere. Sal had told me he planned to spend the day shopping for fabrics down in Santa Barbara. I had no idea what Amalie was up to, but I didn’t want to push myself on her. As for him, he said he was renovating the other guesthouses. I’d spied two of them tucked along the other side of the property, far more remote than mine. So maybe he was there.
It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for Lucian either. Even so, nerves jumped and punched around in my belly as I neared the pool. The heels of my slingback sandals clicked along the terra-cotta pavers. The pool lay still and deep blue in the sunshine. And though I was here to swim, I edged past it, as though Lucian might pop out of its depths and glare at me. Which was ridiculous, given that the water was crystal clear—without a hot man in sight.
At the far end of the pool was a pool house with italianate columns that held up a wisteria-covered terrace. The glass french doors to the pool house were open. I couldn’t help but peek in. The lovely living room was done up in French country style, with dusky-robin’s-egg-blue walls, sisal rugs, faded-yellow linen couches, and pretty alabaster lamps with blue shades dotted here and there.
A kitchenette was on one side, and behind a pair of open blue damask drapes, a white iron bed was tucked in the alcove on the other end. Several artworks were on the floor, propped up against the wall. A box filled with small vases and various decorative knickknacks sat beside them.
Someone was either still putting things up or taking them away. Then I noticed the pair of faded jeans lying in a lump by the end of the bed, well-worn work boots tossed next to them.