Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,7
the spotlight can dissolve back
Into the shadows from where she came
GENEVIEVE
I didn’t have to ask Oliver again. He did, the next day, and now two days after the meet-and-greet, he’s walking up my drive. I watch him approach like a little girl waiting for birthday party guests. Well, how I imagine it would be for most little girls. I rarely knew the guests at my parties.
He’s not limping today, so I’m hoping that means he’s having a good day with his knee. I don’t like the thought of Oliver in pain. Nothing should ever wipe that addictive smile from his face. He’s also better-dressed than I expected, and his button-down shirt and jeans work well for him. Extremely well. In fact, without the team gear he could easily pass for one of the models or actors I’m much more accustomed to seeing on my property.
Something is rolled in his left hand, probably the swimsuit I told him to bring so we could take advantage of this unusually warm December day. His right holds a bottle of wine. I scoot away from the door when he mounts the large stone staircase so it’s not obvious I’ve been hovering. When he rings the intercom, I wait a few seconds to answer for the sake of decorum.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. A cloud lifts around me with his smile. Color filters in.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Did you have any trouble with security? Sorry about that, but it’s a necessary evil.”
“No. They found me on the list and let me through without an issue.”
“Good.”
I like this position. Me, a step above so we’re almost eyelevel, but I quickly wave him inside.
“Thanks for coming. Maybe it’s strange for a first date, but this is the only way we can have privacy. Any time I’m out, well, you know.”
He nods and follows me through the foyer. His eyes widen with each step, and I swallow the urge to speak. Glitz, glamour, ostentatious displays—this is what I am. Better he know that up front.
“Oh, here,” he says as we approach the kitchen. He hands me the wine bottle, and I also resist the urge to check the label. It doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t want any of the usual crap to matter with him.
I glance over at his sudden chuckle.
“The thing is, I don’t actually drink, but feel free to open it for yourself if you want. I wasn’t sure what else to bring, sorry.”
Surprised, I study him for more clues. “You don’t drink? Ever?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just a personal preference.”
“Religious reasons?”
“Health reasons. And... I’ve watched too many of my teammates mess up their lives from partying over the years. I can’t afford that.”
I place the bottle on the counter. “Yeah, I imagine the stakes are pretty high for you.”
“Extremely.”
He looks away, and I want to know more. Everything. But I’m not sure how to ask. Instead, I clear my throat.
“I’ll order in if you’re hungry. I don’t really cook. Usually, there’s staff here for that, but I sent everyone except security home to give us privacy.”
A smile flickers over his lips.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, the smile growing. “Nothing. It’s just, all we’ve done is apologize to each other since I arrived.”
I think back over our interactions.
Sorry about security.
Sorry this is a weird first date.
Sorry I brought you wine I won’t drink.
Sorry my staff isn’t here to make you food.
My own smile slips out. “Good point.” Also, a dangerous trajectory. “So let’s go swimming.”
He laughs. “Just like that, huh?”
“Yep. It’s better than standing here apologizing to each other, right?”
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