Exposed (VIP 4)
He keeps giving up pieces of himself, knowing that my pride took a big hit when he overheard me. The gesture flutters through me like a breath of warm air, finding its way through the small cracks in my resistance. I find myself relaxing just a bit, my grip on the throw pillow I’ve pulled on my lap easing.
Rye swallows audibly. His long fingers tap an agitated rhythm on his thigh. “You going on a date with him?”
“I’m supposed to.” The reply is automatic and wooden; my brain is still having trouble catching up.
“Supposed to? Does that mean you are?”
I shake myself out of my Rye-induced fog. “Yes. I don’t know. I mean, we exchanged numbers so we could make plans, but…”
“But?” He slides just a bit closer.
“I wasn’t feeling it,” I confess without thinking. He stirs beside me, and I catch the faint scent of perfume, sweetly funky and over-the-top, emanating from him. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Montale’s Amber Musk. It’s never been a favorite. I really don’t like it now.
My nostrils flare, and I rear back, hitting the couch arm. “Wait, you were jealous? I must have been imagining things again, because I could have sworn you had some woman hanging on your arm when I left.”
He stills, confusion blanking his expression before he slowly smiles. “You noticed that, huh?”
“Oh, please. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone. How am I supposed to miss you cuddled up with the bohemian brunette?” One of a seemingly endless line of beautiful women who’ll gaze at Rye as if he is the answer to every hot sex question they’ve ever asked.
His smug smile grows. “And yet you didn’t come to say goodbye. You left.” He eases even closer. “Tell me, Bren, were you a wee bit jealous as well?”
“Get over yourself. And stop pretending you were unsettled by thoughts of me with Marshall when you are…reeking of her.” I wrinkle my nose. “Just go away. You stink.”
He gives me a long, considering look, then stands abruptly. Without another word, he walks out of the room, leaving me to gape after him. I didn’t think he’d actually leave. I should be relieved. Instead, I’m oddly disappointed. I don’t know why, since I’ve been trying to push him away from the moment I saw him through the peephole.
Thing is, I don’t hear the front door open or shut. I hear water running. Refusing to go look for him, I stuff a few more Pringles in my mouth and take a healthy sip of my wine. It’s gone warm and is almost finished. I itch to get up, top off my glass, or maybe find Rye. No. I won’t do that.
I’m reaching for my remote, about to turn my movie back on in a sad attempt at distraction, when he strides back into the room in the process of tugging on a brand-new Kill John concert tee. I’m treated to a glimpse of truly killer abs arrowing down into low-slung jeans before the shirt settles.
“Good thing you had these promos hanging around,” he says.
By “hanging around,” he means stacked in my home office. The guys scoff at me for having so many, but I like to send them out to various sites and people when needed.
The black shirt stretches tight over Rye’s shoulders and strains around his biceps. Clearly, he needs an extra-large, but I usually keep only medium and large around.
Hiding my surprise at his return, I smirk. “How’s it feel having Killian on your chest?”
The image we used for this shirt was of Killian, shot from the back, a guitar in hand, blue and red stage lights shining in the smoky atmosphere of a club. It was the cover of Volver, the first album the band did when they got back together after their hiatus.
Rye glances down at his chest and grins. “I noticed you don’t have any awesome Rye Peterson shirts on hand.”
“Because there aren’t any.”
His grin grows cheeky. “We need to remedy that.”
“Sure. As soon as you actually commit to a photoshoot, I’ll get right on that.”
Rye runs a hand through his damp hair and sits back down next to me. “I washed and changed my shirt. Can we please talk now?”
My lips twitch. Damn it, the big oaf is cute when he wants to be. And now he smells like my guest shower gel, fresh and citrusy. That he didn’t invade my private bath but used the guest room one is a nice touch. I haven’t seen him try this hard in well…ever.
“And before you start in,” he adds, “I left the brunette back at the party. I wasn’t feeling it.”
Using my words against me. I grunt in response, hiding behind the act of eating another chip and staring at the French poodles prancing all over my pink pajama pants. He seems pleased at this and moves a hair closer. Over the years, I’ve developed the power to gauge exactly where Rye’s body is in proximity to mine. It’s like a superpower I never wanted.