Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

“I, um . . .” She tipped her head down so the wet hair would curtain her face. Must resist the call of those chisel-cut hip abductors. “There’s an early call time. I need to hurry up and get down there.”

“Where are you filming today?”

Was his voice closer than before? The goose bumps racing up her skin made her wish dearly for something more substantial than a towel to cover herself. “We’re shooting on the harbor. A kissing scene, actually. The big finale. We should have the lighting we’ve been waiting for.”

“Finale?” he echoed quickly. “You just started.”

“We don’t always shoot the scenes in order. Sometimes it depends on the availability of the locations . . .” He stepped in front of Hannah, giving her no choice but to look up at the ceiling, where she pretended to search for cracks. Otherwise she wouldn’t trust herself not to stare straight into the eye of the storm.

Also known as his crotch.

“You can’t look at me, can you?” Fox said, amused. “I’m not used to having someone else in the house. You want me to put on sweatpants next time?”

Jesus, no, screamed the pervert who had rented space in her head.

“Yes, please. And I’ll . . . use my robe, too. I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

The heat of his chest warmed her exposed shoulders, and everything down there turned soft and wet. She became acutely aware of the sound of his hands settling on his hips, skin rasping on skin. His height and strength compared to her.

It was shameful to be reacting to her friend this way.

She obviously wasn’t going to sleep with him. At this juncture in her life, she wasn’t interested in casual sex. Especially with Fox. He didn’t merely eschew long-term, he was all about no term. Having her around afterward would make him uncomfortable, he’d regret getting physical, and that would ruin their friendship.

I’m just a good time, and everyone knows it.

His statement from Friday night drifted into her thoughts, and for some reason, the memory made her want to look him in the eye. He was scrutinizing her kind of expectantly, as if waiting for her to expire from arousal or attempt to climb him. Was he . . . trying to throw her off-balance for some reason? Why?

She couldn’t work through it when that smell was muddling her brain. What kind of nuclear pheromones was this guy giving off?

Very discreetly, she hoped, Hannah inhaled his scent.

“What is that?”

His brows drew together. “What is what?”

“That ginger smell. Is it like . . . lotion or aftershave or something?”

“No.” He smirked. “None of those.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “What is it, then?”

He very briefly touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of his lips, his blue eyes twinkling. “Massage oil.”

Of all the explanations, Hannah was not expecting that. “Massage oil.” She laughed. “Were you, like, giving yourself a massage—” Flames climbed her face. “Oh. Wow. Walked right into that. I . . . Were you . . . d-doing that this morning?” She waved her hands frantically. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

His grin only widened. “Yeah, I was. First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip. Had to blow off some steam. Should I have asked permission first?”

“No.” Oh no. Now she was thinking about Fox asking for her permission to masturbate. It was like someone saying, “Don’t think about pink elephants.”

Except the pink elephant was Fox’s penis.

“No, of course not. This is your apartment.” And now she was reluctantly fascinated. “You use massage oil for that?”

He hummed in affirmation. “It doubles as a lubricant. You’re welcome to borrow it.” His attention dropped to the knot between her breasts, then lower, to the spot where the hem of the towel brushed her mid-thigh. “But only if you like to make yourself nice and sensitive first.” He rubbed his knuckles over the breach of his belly button, through dark-blond hair and faded ink. “Kind of like foreplay with your own fingers.”

A swallow got stuck in her throat.

A bead of sweat ran down the small of her back.

“I’ll leave it in the bathroom cabinet.” He winked at her as he backed away, eventually turning for his bedroom. “Orange bottle.”

“Oo-kay,” she said, tongue heavier than lead. “Thanks?”

Did friends share lube?

Maybe only people who were friends with this particular man?

“I’ll be working on the boat all day,” he said on his way into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him before calling through the crack, “See you down at the harbor, Freckles.”

Oh.

Great.

She walked to her room in a daze.

* * *

Fox watched the film crew move like clockwork from his vantage point on the deck of the Della Ray. Three big white trailers were parked on the road, young people with headsets and clipboards scurrying around. Others congregated around a table of food and drinks. Large fluorescent-lamp-looking things surrounded two actors—a moody, skinny guy and a redhead who went from mooning over each other to checking their phones and not speaking in between takes.