“Okay, fine. I’ll be like Elsa and let it go,” she said, standing to escort him to the film set. “Ready to go?”
Instead of hopping to his feet, he kicked them onto the coffee table and gave her a mischievous smile. That set off alarms much louder than the shy dragon.
“What?” she asked warily.
“The director got food poisoning from craft services, so it appears I have the day off. Want to go for a swim?”
Watching someone ordinarily so composed and effortlessly graceful as Wyntir suddenly look like a deer in headlights was infinitely entertaining. He hadn’t meant to put her on the spot like that, but when someone from the film’s production office had called him about the postponement early that morning, he’d thought spending a lazy Sunday lounging with his son by the pool sounded like bliss. Then he’d had a brainstorm. Of course, it didn’t seem like she agreed on the genius of his magnificent plan.
“Um, shockingly enough, I didn’t pack my swimsuit while preparing for my job this morning.”
She scowled at him, though he would have sworn in a court of law he saw a flicker of FOMO in her eyes. Regardless, whatever composure she’d lost roared back with a vengeance in a show of impeccable adaptability. The cameras would have adored her if she’d gone into acting.
“Psh, not a problem,” he said cheerfully. “Once I heard shooting was cancelled, I had my assistant bring over several for you to choose from.”
She chewed on her lip for a minute, as if she had a choice in the matter. As Wildridge’s most famous client, Stark knew Charlie would insist on her staying at the house, no matter what was planned for the day. He had her right where he wanted her. Well, in the vicinity, anyway.
“Wait,” she snapped, throwing him a suspicious look. “How’d you know my size?”
“I don’t,” he shrugged. “And for the record, I would never ask. But my assistants have worked in the industry for years and have had to make more than one emergency wardrobe delivery. My guess is there is a nice range of sizes and styles.”
He slowly stood to his full height, stretching his arms over his head, and sauntered over to the wall of windows that overlooked the pool. Considering how her eyes bulged at the show, he made a note to send his trainer a bonus. “Of course, if you really would prefer not to swim with us, you can always sweat your balls off poolside while we stay cool and have fun playing Marco Polo.”
She raised her perfectly on-fleek eyebrows at him. “If you haven’t noticed, I don’t actually have balls.”
Stark tried really hard not to give her a once-over, but he couldn’t help a quick glance. “Trust me, I’ve noticed.”
Her face flamed red and she turned away, pretending to look at her phone like she’d just received a text. They both knew she hadn’t, but he let her have the win.
“I just don’t know how well I’ll be able to do my job if I’m splashing around in a pool,” she said, finally facing him again.
If his eyes hadn’t been glued to her face, he would have missed the quick glance she gave his body. That confirmed she was worried about more than her job. She wanted to keep him at a distance, and he had a feeling he knew why, which hurt his heart.
“Actually,” he crooned with an irresistible—he hoped—smile as he took a few steps closer to her, “since we’ll be in the water all day, joining us is the only responsible thing to do.”
Her resolve was wavering, he could tell. He just needed to give her a little push.
“Besides, I don’t recall dragons having a dress code when the shit goes down, and I’m betting you can shift wherever and whenever you want, chlorinated water be damned.”
Her pink tongue swiped her lips as she tried to decide exactly how professional she should be. Not one to take failure lightly, Stark pulled out the big guns.
“And you know Blaise will be so disappointed if you don’t.”
That did the trick. She’d been searching for a reason to agree and he’d just handed it to her on a silver platter. It warmed his heart that she seemed so fond of his son, and for his part, Blaise never stopped talking about Wyntir.
“Oh hell, what could it hurt?” she said with the start of a smile. “Besides, it’s for Blaise.”
“Right. Blaise.” He clenched his jaw to keep from grinning and pointed down the hall. “The swimsuits are down there, second door on the right.”
While he waited for Wyntir and Blaise to change, he headed outside. A warm breeze rolled gently over his bronzed skin as he padded over to the pool. Fara had insisted they teach Blaise to swim as a baby, hiring one of the most expensive coaches in LA. Too many tragic stories made the news of kids drowning in backyard pools and he never regretted their choice—except for the fact that Blaise would live his entire life in the pool, given the chance.
The sound of the French doors opening drew his gaze before he dove into the crystal blue depths. Wyntir stepped out of the shadows and into the light like a goddess.
Legs was the first thought that clicked in Stark’s mind like a big neon sign in cursive writing, and everything else came right after in an overwhelming symphony. The pearly white one-piece looked smooth as silk hugging her curvy figure, save for the gold-trimmed sash around the waist that ended in a fancy bow at the right hip. The plunging vee down the front only added to the stunning view.
Wyntir was the kind of person who made anything look good, and this should have been no exception. But she was still…stiff? Uncomfortable? At the very least, she didn’t seem half as relaxed as she had been at dinner the night before, much less on their walk.
Even so, she certainly wasn’t shy about her body. Skimming her hands along her curves, she graced him with a satisfied smile that made him wish he was already in the pool—or at least the lower half.
“Your assistant has good taste,” she said, cocking her hip to one side.
Stark didn’t bother hiding his admiration. “I’m doubling her salary tomorrow.”
She pursed her lips like she was trying not to smile and then something that looked like sadness flashed in her face and her mood darkened.
“On that note, we need to set some Fake Girlfriend Ground Rules,” she said, cool as a cucumber. “An arm around my shoulders or waist is acceptable.”
He would comply with whatever boundaries she set, even if they might kill him with frustration. “Okay… I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“But…no more kissing.” She lifted her chin and watched him with a wary gaze. “Even if there’s a photographer hiding behind a bush.”
Remorse and guilt forced him to avert his gaze. It was time to level with her. He crossed the space between them, leaving enough room so she wouldn’t feel invaded but remaining close enough that his skin tingled from her proximity. It took a long, painful moment for him to muster the courage to admit the truth, but after a deep breath, he somehow managed.
“I lied.”
“Excuse me?” she said, blinking at the surprise confession.
“Last night. I lied.”
An adorable crinkle formed in her otherwise flawless brow. “About?”
The words didn’t want to leave his mouth, but he had to be honest. “Wyntir, there was no photographer hiding in a bush. I just…really wanted to kiss you.”