While he changes, I open the bottle he brought and give myself a healthy pour. I haven’t eaten much today, so hopefully the alcohol goes straight to my head. Just enough to take the edge off so I stop thinking so much around him. People love me because I seem shallow. Shallow is easy. Safe. I satisfy expectations. I smile and make them important by association. This constant saturation with Oliver isn’t going to work if I have any hope of keeping him. He can’t know what the mirror knows. That I’m not shallow; I’m empty.
By the time he returns, I’ve polished off one glass and poured another. For someone who doesn’t drink, he has good taste in wine.
And swimsuits. Holy…
He comes down the hall all quiet confidence in navy blue board shorts riding low on his hips. It’s like watching a walking anatomy diagram. Here lies the rectus abdominus. Over here you will see the external oblique. One full glass of wine on an empty stomach thinks that’s incredibly hilarious, and quite possibly, the sexiest thing it’s ever seen. It also wants to touch. Badly.
“You’re laughing. That’s not a good sign,” he says, joining me in the kitchen.
I shake my head, the wine now fully kicking in. “Only about the fact that you’re pretty much perfect, aren’t you.”
“Perfect?” he echoes, amused. He scans me for a second before his gaze slides to the open bottle. “Ah. The wine is okay, then?”
“The wine is great! Let’s swim!”
I grab his hand and drag him toward the glass doors leading to the pool deck.
He chuckles, and I already feel better at the sound. Laughter I can work with. Lust, I live for, and yank my short dress over my head as soon as we step onto the patio. I feel his stare before I see it. Good. I take my time with the seduction, stripping slowly, and bending low to drop the discarded garment on a chaise lounge. When I look back his eyes have flared hot.
“Pool is heated, so the water should be nice,” I say, brushing past him to step into it. When he doesn’t follow, I turn back and toss my most seductive of seductive looks. His gaze runs over me again, hungry and intense, but his smile dims the longer he stares. Something isn’t right.
“What’s wrong? Do you not like my suit?” I bat my eyes to extra-flirt levels.
Of course he likes it. It was designed to make guys like him fall at the feet of girls like me. I wore it for him. For this very moment where I had no intention of showing mercy. Except he’s not falling. Or moving. Or speaking. Or doing any of the things I need him to be doing right now. If anything, he’s backed further from the edge of the pool.
“You look great,” he says, but there’s nothing flirtatious in his tone.
“Then what is it? You know how to swim, right? An elite athlete like you?” I tease. Or the wine does. I can’t tell if that was a good line or not. Maybe not when his gaze darkens slightly. “If not, I can show you.” I lower my lids to sultry and jut out my chest, but the reaction I get is the opposite of what I expect. It’s like the harder I try, the less interested he is. A small ember of panic ignites in my belly.
I force a smile. “Did I do something wrong?” I try for flirty, but it’s hard with him staring at me like that. His expression is severe, confused.
“The mirror in the bathroom,” he says finally. “Why is it covered?”
I freeze. All the wine in my head drains to my stomach in a violent rush of nausea. He tilts his head when I don’t respond, studying me. I don’t like it. I feel naked, exposed. Like he sees past the shine to the dirt beneath it. He softens after another moment, and I hate his look of pity even more.
His sigh. I’ve never hated a sound so much in my life.
“Look, Genevieve, you seem to have a lot going for you. I’m sure you have your pick of guys.” He adds a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. His light is pulling away. I watch it dim with each second, each word of his retreat. I’ve lost him. I’ve lost the color he brought in our brief acquaintance. The panic returns, whooshing through my head in a dizzying swirl. I grip the edge of the pool, my fingers tightening to painful levels on the concrete ledge.
I don’t want my pick. I want real. I want light. I want you.
I don’t say that. I rock against the current of the water.
Don’t go. Please!
He clears his throat. “Anyway, thank you again for your invitation. It was very nice of you.”
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
He starts toward the sliding glass door.
No one cries like her.
His back ripples with tension at each step. His fists are clenched. I can’t see his eyes. His smile. It’s gone. All of it. Before it began, I broke everything.
No one’s heart beats and bleeds like hers.
I’m bleeding. So much blood gushing beneath this polished façade that no one will ever see. Not my parents. Not my manager. Not my millions of fans. Not even Hadley, the only person who actually knows me.
No one. No one. No one.
“I hate them!”
I gasp and cover my mouth as he stops in his tracks. He turns slowly, his gaze deep and intense.
“You hate what?”
“Mirrors. I hate them,” I say quietly. “They remind me that I—I’m not what I’m supposed to be.”
“And what are you supposed to be?”
Tears burn in my eyes. He has to stop looking at me like that. I can’t think. I can’t fight.
“Whatever they want.” The words leak out as a whisper. Wet. Angry. “I have to be what they want.”
He steps forward. “Did you think you had to be what I want today?”
I blink back the hot liquid, but it doesn’t work. Instead, it rolls down my cheeks in a brutal betrayal. I nod.
“Did you think I came here because you’re the Genevieve Fox?”
I nod again.
He almost looks angry as he takes another step toward me. And another. And another until he’s at the edge of the pool, staring down at me. I can’t see his face anymore, can’t read his eyes. He’s just a shadow against the blare of the sun. Towering over me, converting light into darkness. He’s a god in our tiny universe, the one who holds the power of this moment. But instead of exploiting it, he crouches down. The light floods back, and I flinch at his adjustment, knowing how difficult that position is for him.
“Your knee,” I say before I can stop myself. I reach out and brush my fingers over a small scar. That’s when I also see the change in his face. The softness. The sincerity. He captures my fingers in his hand and squeezes gently.
“I came, Genevieve, because you helped me up despite the cameras. Because you asked about my family when everyone else asks about my injury. Because for five damn minutes I felt like more than an injured hockey player.”
He reaches over and runs his thumb along my cheek, catching tears, tracking fresh trails. I close my eyes and breathe in his touch. In. Out. Breathe. I can breathe in his presence.
“I don’t want you to be what I want. I want you to be you. Can you do that with me?”
When I dare a look back, I not only see the question, but the hope. The plea. He wants the girl in the mirror. My pulse pounds. I cling harder to his hand.
“I don’t know her,” I whisper, turning frightened eyes up to him. “I don’t know the girl in the mirror. What if…” I can’t finish the sentence as the tears return. What if she’s too broken to fix?