Chapter 21

CHAPTER21

SCARLETT

“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful,” I say the second we enter the house that’ll be our headquarters for the next few weeks.

The floors are wood, and the furniture in the open living area is oversize and covered in pristine white. The windows that line the front of the house are massive, and the fresh yet vaguely salty scent reminds me of the ocean.

Which we’re relatively close to, though the scent isn’t coming from the outside air but the subtle diffuser I see sitting on top of a table close to the front door.

“Yeah, it’s nice.” Tate closes the door behind us and locks it, not taking any chances despite the two security guys we have currently wandering around outside, checking out the yard and the neighborhood in general.

We have an entourage coming with us. Staying with us. The security team will remain on site for the entirety of our stay here. The home we’re staying at is deep in the hills of Calabasas, where plenty of other celebrities live in extremely secure neighborhoods. The point of staying here is to give the illusion of celebrity, Roger explained to us during the plane ride. And while Tate is definitely considered a celebrity, his star is still faintly tarnished.

It’s my job, Roger told me privately when Tate left to use the restroom, to help ensure Tate shines brighter than ever.

I just smiled and nodded in agreement with everything that Roger told me. Told us. For most of the flight I wished for Simon to be there too, because he makes an excellent buffer, but we had to endure Roger alone, which I struggled with.

The man never knows when to shut up. His mouth is big, and he says the most inappropriate things, making me kind of uncomfortable. But throughout the flight, Tate took whatever Roger said in stride, sending me apologetic looks or even rolling his eyes. He actually yelled at Roger a few times to watch his mouth, and while he’d be on good behavior for approximately five minutes, eventually it would get to be too much, and he’d say something else awful.

Thankfully we parted ways with Roger at the airport. I was afraid he’d want to see the house we’re staying at, but he jumped into his own car—which was brought to the tarmac where our private plane landed, I might add—and took off with a roar of the engine and squealing tires.

The relief I felt at his departure still lingers. The man is a bit of a menace—to borrow that term from my father.

Still have to deal with the security, though, which is odd. Our family has had security off and on throughout the years, but mostly for special events or when we’re traveling and my mother insists on bringing her very best jewelry. Mom wants to show it off, and Dad wants to keep it under lock and key, so they compromise with beefy security guys who tag along with Mom when she busts out the diamonds and is decked head to toe in designer goods.

It’s always a scene. Kind of like how Tate and I are turning into a scene. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but it’s still a little wild.

Especially when it’s happening to me.

The record label hired a private jet for us to travel in, which comes with an even more private entrance to the airport. Thanks to our little moment in front of the restaurant last night and his new single blazing up the charts, management didn’t want us to cause a commotion with our arrival.

Pretty sure that’s all we’ve been doing since our supposed story hit the internet, and that’s the part they like, right?

But it’s all a game, dealing with the paparazzi. That’s what Tate told me. They want you, but they don’t want you too much. You have to play cat and mouse with them.

I think about what happened last night. The song he serenaded me with. It wasn’t as good as “Red,” but it was sweet. It felt more from the heart, even though he did admit he wrote it really quick while on the way to the restaurant.

That doesn’t even matter. I thought it was . . . nice. And when Tate pulled me into his arms and kissed me until I thought my legs might give out under me?

Forget it. Our faces—usually with our mouths mashed together, locked in a passionate kiss—are now everywhere. And since he faux asked me to go to Los Angeles with him, the paparazzi are on the lookout for us at every airport in Southern California.

It’s crazy. We’re causing serious mayhem everywhere we go, and I don’t get why people care so much.

I hear a low whistle coming from somewhere and realize I’m standing alone in the living area while Tate is already in the kitchen. “Damn, this is nice.”

I follow him into the massive space, silently taking in everything. There is white everywhere. The marble countertops, the cabinets, the massive island, and the walls. There’s a breakfast nook with a sleek white table and chairs filling it, surrounded by windows that overlook the gorgeous backyard with what looks like a never-ending bright-green lawn and a rectangular pool that I swear must be Olympic size.

“Wow,” I murmur as I go to one of the windows and stare outside. “This is beautiful.”

“Roger and Irresistible never do anything half-assed,” Tate says as he moves about the kitchen. I hear doors opening and glance over my shoulder to find him staring into the refrigerator. “We have a personal chef who should be here any minute. Roger texted a few minutes ago letting me know. They’ll make dinner for us.”

“A personal chef?” I’m used to this sort of treatment at home thanks to being a Lancaster, but I figured we would mostly be on our own out here.

Surprisingly enough, looks like I’m wrong.

“Oh yeah, there is no expense too great for me right now, according to Roger. And Simon. Thanks to the song hitting the top ten.” He leans against the edge of the pristine white marble countertop, watching me. “I’ll eventually be charged for all of this, though. They’ll sneak it into my royalty statements, and it’ll take me years to earn out.”

I glance around the contemporary kitchen, wondering how much something like this must cost. “Do they own this place?”

“They rent it, I’m sure at a steep cost. Again, it’s all part of the image. ‘Tate Ramsey has hit it big again. His next-door neighbor is Drake. More at eleven.’” He throws his hands up in the air and makes the jazz-hands gesture, his fingers wiggling. “The more I fit the image, the more it feeds the machine, so to speak.”

“What machine?”

“Oh, come on, Scar. The publicity machine.” He pushes away from the counter and starts to exit the kitchen via another hallway on the other side of the room. “Come on. Let’s go check out the bedrooms.”

I follow him, impressed by the size of the rooms. There are two primary bedrooms on either side of the hall, and I choose the one that overlooks the backyard. I want a view of that pool. Since I’ve lived in the city for the majority of my life, this sort of yard feels so different to me.

And I love it.

Our luggage is brought in by one of the security guys, and I unpack the essentials. Tate meets with the personal chef once she arrives, eventually calling me into the kitchen to join them so I can discuss any dietary needs or allergies I might have. Once she starts preparing our dinner, I go back to my room and change into a bikini, donning a black sundress as a cover-up before I slather my face with SPF and then head for the backyard.

“Where are you going?” Tate’s deep voice calls from within his bedroom.

I stop in the open doorway, slipping on my Fendi sunglasses, the cute ones with the F logos all over the frames. “To the pool.”

He’s standing beside his bed, his suitcase open, and when I glance at it, I can’t help but think it looks like it just exploded. Clothes are literally everywhere, most of them unfolded and wrinkled. “Going for a swim?”

“Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder. More like definitely. I want to lie out in the sun first on one of those big loungers that sit by the pool. Soak up those rays—with SPF on, of course. And then once I get hot enough, I’ll jump in the pool and cool off. “Do you know if they have towels outside?”

“Probably. Come on, let’s go check.” Tate heads toward me, and I dart out of his way, standing to the side as he strides out of his bedroom, before I fall into step behind him. We walk out onto the back patio via the kitchen’s back door, and Tate finds a storage box full of towels next to a table. He props open the box lid and reaches inside, handing me a thick white towel, our fingers grazing during the exchange. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” I take the plush towel, trying to ignore the tingling sensation sweeping up my arm at the innocent touch. He’s watching me with a heavy gaze, absently rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, and I have this sudden urge to fling myself at him and see if he’d grab hold of me.

I bet he would. Wait, scratch that.

I know he would.

That kiss in front of the restaurant while a group of people watched us might’ve been for show, but it felt like so much more. At the very least, it felt different compared to the previous ones, unlike any kiss he’s given me before, and this is the third time we’ve done this.

The first one was a shock, and once he got into it, he teased me, almost as if he was daring me to kiss him back, which I did.

The second time, out on the street? I think he kissed me to shut me up, and it worked. That one was simpler and, thanks to my anger and frustration, fairly unmoving.

The third one, though?

If a chorus of angels had come down from the heavens and sung us a song while we kissed, I wouldn’t have noticed. Everything around us faded. The audience, the cars on the street, the usual city noise. Even Rachel faded away, and all I was left with was the sensation of Tate’s mouth moving over mine. His tongue gliding against mine. His hands on my body and that warm, hard wall of muscle known as his fit body pressed against me . . .

I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since. I don’t remember ever feeling this way when I was with Ian. Not that he ever held me or kissed me. Oh, a few times on the cheek here and there over the years, but that was it.

And he definitely never sang to me. Or wrote me a song. He most definitely never declared his feelings for me publicly, let alone privately. Not that I expected Ian to do anything like that. Tate singing for me felt cheesy and almost silly the night of my birthday. Well, with the exception of when he sang me “Happy Birthday” and there was that dark, almost sensual gleam in his eye as he watched me. Like he was thinking about me in . . . inappropriate ways.

It might’ve all been a publicity stunt, but I fell for it completely. I wanted to swoon. Even Rachel—who is one of the most hardened people I know—totally fell for it. She was all giddy and fluttery around Tate, and when he took a selfie with her last night so she could post it on her stories? She was giving him a moony look that left me grumpy for about a minute.

Then I remembered I was the one who was stuck with him for the next six weeks, and I forgot all about my jealousy. Because that’s what it was. I was jealous. Feeling downright territorial. For the next six weeks, Tate Ramsey belongs with me. To me.

End of story.

“You already finish unpacking?” Tate asks, his smooth voice pulling me from my thoughts.

“Kind of.” Not really.

He smiles. “I’m going to finish up, and then I think I’ll join you.”

“By the pool?” My voice turns into a squeak.

His smile grows. “Yep. See you in a few.”

Tate tugs on the end of my ponytail playfully and then heads back into the house.

I stand there for a moment, gathering my wayward thoughts. Wondering how I’m going to endure the next couple of weeks at this house with Tate. I was under the assumption he would be locked away in a recording studio for hours on end every single day, leaving me alone. But he explained to me on the drive to the house that the first week or two, he’ll be working at the studio that’s on the property, putting songs together with a sound engineer and a keyboardist. Meaning he’ll be here for the majority of the time that I’m here as well.

I know he’ll be busy, but he’ll also be right here, all the time. And that might be kind of weird.

Or will it?

I pull one of the heavy loungers closer to the pool, lay the thick towel across it, and take off my sundress, readjusting my bikini top so my boobs are mostly contained before I settle down. The sun is warm but not as intense as I thought it might be, and I reposition the lounger once again before I lie on it, closing my eyes and tilting my face toward the sun. It warms my skin almost immediately, lulling me into drowsiness within a few minutes, and just when I’m about to fall asleep, I feel a shadow settle over me.

“You’re going to burn.”

I crack one eye open to find Tate standing at the foot of my lounger, clad in black swim trunks and nothing else, dark glasses covering his eyes.

I nearly swallow my tongue as I take in all that bare skin on display. The man is in fine physical shape, his body much more developed than it was when he was a lanky teenager during his boy band days. I remember thinking he was so cute then, my body responding in unfamiliar ways to a shirtless photo shoot he did.

He looks a million times better, plus it’s in person. My body is at it again, responding in all sorts of ways, and I shift my position, pressing my thighs together to stave off the sudden needy feeling racing through me.

“Am I already turning red?” I ask, glancing down at my bare shoulder.

“A little.” He lifts his shades, his narrowed eyes skimming over my body, lingering in places that make me squirm again. “You put on sunscreen?”

“Only on my face,” I admit, feeling silly. I should know better. Baking myself in the Southern California sun without protection? What’s wrong with me? I blame jet lag, though that’s probably a bogus excuse.

“I brought some.” He shows me the sunscreen can clutched in his right hand. He offers it to me, and I take it. “Hold this for me, will you.”

I watch as he grabs another lounger and drags it over so it’s aligned with mine. He drapes his towel across it before he turns to me once more. I’m still in the same position, sitting there with the sunscreen in my hand, holding it like I’m a display model about to sell it to someone.

Yikes.

“Spray some on,” Tate encourages me, and I rise to my feet, practically bumping into him, he’s standing so close.

I shake the bottle and aim the sunscreen at myself before I start spraying my arms and shoulders and chest. My stomach and the fronts of my legs. I hand the bottle to Tate.

“You should do your back,” he suggests as he starts spraying himself.

My mouth goes dry as I watch the sheen appear on his smooth skin. “I can’t reach it.”

I feel like I’m in a movie. Haven’t we all seen moments like this, when the girl needs the guy to rub sunscreen or tanning lotion on her back because she can’t reach? Or she does the same for him?

Yeah. I’m having a weird sort of déjà vu feeling, though I’ve never actually had this happen to me.

“I’ll help you if you help me.” He grins, and I’m left breathless at the sight of that famous megawatt smile. “Turn around.”

He twirls his finger for emphasis, and I do as he says, presenting my back to him. He starts to spray, the sunscreen hitting my skin and making me shiver. When he slowly pushes my hair away from the back of my neck, his fingers brushing my nape, I bite my lip and close my eyes, savoring the feeling of his hands on me. His body so close to mine. I can feel the heat radiating from him.

One more step and we’d be flesh to flesh. I don’t know what I would do if that happened.

I sort of want to know what it would feel like. To have Tate pressed up against me. His bare chest against my back, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck⁠—

“Will you spray me now?” he asks, interrupting my vaguely dirty thoughts.

My entire body flushes, and I glance up at him to see he’s already offering me the sunscreen. I take it from him, and he turns so his back is to me. I start spraying, covering what feels like acres of skin, silently marveling at the smooth expanse of his back, the breadth of his shoulders. The twin dimples at the base of his spine, just above the waistband of his swim trunks.

I even bend down and spray the backs of his legs, wanting to make sure every inch of him is covered, and when I’m finally finished, I whisper, “All done.”

My voice is gone. My heart is hammering in my chest, threatening to fly out at any given moment, and I tell myself to chill. This is no big deal.

It means nothing.

He glances over his shoulder, his lips curved in the faintest smile. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” I return, setting the sunscreen on a nearby table.

Feeling awkward, I practically throw myself back on the lounger, grateful I have sunglasses on so he can’t see my eyes. He’s humming as he repositions his towel, stretching it out so it covers the entirety of the lounger.

I pretend I’m not watching as he settles in on the chair, the sunglasses covering his eyes once more, his body, gleaming with sunscreen, aimed toward the sun. My gaze crawls over his skin, taking note of every little thing. His strong neck. The muscular shoulders. How he lifts his arm, running his hand through his hair and pushing it away from his face, his biceps bulging. The faint smattering of dark hair between his pecs. The same dark hair that runs in a line from his navel down his stomach, before disappearing beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.

My mouth is dry. My entire body aching. My gaze lingers on his shorts, wondering what sorts of mysteries lie beneath the fabric, and I get all flustered and uncomfortable just thinking about it.

“You okay over there?” He doesn’t turn toward me. He barely moves save for his lips when he asks the question.

I look away like I’ve been caught staring, when there’s no indication that he actually knows what I was doing. “I’m fine.” I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re rustling around over there. Sounds like you can’t get comfortable.” He turns his head in my direction, lifting his sunglasses so he can peek at me. “You already getting hot?”

More like hot and bothered. “It’s kind of warm out here.”

He faces the sky once more, dropping his glasses over his eyes. “Jump in. I’m sure the water will feel good. Cool you down.”

Yeah, I definitely need to cool down. In more ways than one.