“I never get sick of this view,” Blondie says as we cross the manicured lawn, still hand in hand.
I nod. “I have to admit, it’s pretty nice.” I glance back at the northern face of the mansion where it stands in all itsdominating glory behind us. “And props where props are due…today didn’t totally suck.”
“Ha!” Blondie releases my hand and steps in front of me, poking a finger gently into my left pectoral. “I knew it. You’re a Jane Austen stan, aren’t you?”
I raise my arms in defeat. “You got me. I, Damian Navarro, am secretly a regency bitch. Though, in truth, I actually preferBridgertonover Jane Austen.”
Blondie lets out an honest-to-god giggle, which does something weird to my chest. “Why am I not surprised you watchBridgerton?”
I huff out a derisive breath. “Who can blame me? That Duke is atotalsmokeshow. Being straight doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
She laughs again, those adorable dimples on full display, as we carry on down the lawn toward the sloping crest of the bluff. “There’s a cliff-side walk if you’re up for it,” she suggests, and I shoot her an incredulous look.
“Why, are you hoping to shove me off the edge?”
Her lips twitch at the corners. “Maybe. But if it softens the blow at all, I would pretend to be very sad about it after.”
Her words echo in my head—“if it softens the blow”—and for an unguarded moment, we just look at each other, Blondie awaiting my answer, and me, coming to the most ingenious solution to the maybe-problem she’s not even aware we have. Probably.
“That’s it.” At the silent query in Blondie’s gaze, I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Do you trust me?”
She snorts. “Absolutely not. What kind of question is that?”
I hold up a hand. “Let me rephrase. If I initiate an intimate gesture between us that isn’t holding hands or a quick peck on the cheek, will you shove me off this cliff?”
Blondie considers me for a moment. “No. I’ve decided I’m saving that for month nine after I’ve been paid my due. Besides,my arm strength would have to be phenomenal to yeet you into the Atlantic from here. The edge is still a long way off.”
“Do people still say yeet?” I counter, earning me a light smack on my bicep.
“You’re such a smart-a—” she starts to say, but her words cut off when I wrap a hand around her waist and pull her toward me. She huffs out a softoofwhen her chest bumps into mine, her eyes wide with confusion. They grow wider yet when I raise the hand gripping my phone and open the camera app to capture the moment.
“You’re taking a picture?” she asks, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushing pink. “I mean, obviously, you are, but why?”
Because what better way to soften the blow of a potential scandal than by getting ahead of it? If people think Blondie and I are truly in love, then when—notif—her name gets out, one of two things will happen. One: people will question why the hell Blondie would date me after what I put her through last spring, and we’ll both become the targets of public ridicule. Or two (and I’m banking on this): our current romantic involvement will lead people to wonder if the bet was possibly overblown by the media, leading to them downplaying the overall shittiness of the bucket list for the same reason as number one, but from the other side of the coin—why would Blondie willingly date me if what I did was really so bad? And if I use that narrative to shift the focus away from the bet and turn it to our budding romance? Well, then our relationship could even be seen as a happy ending to the entire ordeal.
But I don’t say any of that because it’s too long-winded, and I don’t want Blondie to worry about something that might not even be on her mental radar. So, instead, I say, “Because you were right.” I’m not sure what shocks her more—that admission or the playful wink I flash at her. “We do need to shake thingsup. And nothing says romance quite like a picture to make it Instagram official.”
Our breaths collide as I lean into the already narrow space between us, and when she doesn’t protest, I press my mouth to hers without another word. Though I’m tempted to, I don’t deepen the kiss—not like I did last time, in my car outside her house. It’s important that this moment looks sweet. Romantic. And I manage it like a pro, butgod, does it take effort. Blondie’s lips are so soft and warm, and the smell of her perfume, or natural aroma, or whatever the hell that scent is permeates my headspace again just like it did when we were driving to Warwick, making me dizzy and my brain go all foggy. Suddenly, I am a feral dog—I want nothing more than to drag her inside, bend her over the nearest antique table, and remind us both of just how good it feels to fuck her.
Not for the first time, I lament not remembering the details of our hook-up last month. All I have is the memory of our library quickie in January, but I was having so much sex at the time, and I was so drunk on the challenge of my bet with Mason that I didn’t really think of her outside the context of getting off. She was just a body. Another number. Another tick on my list. And I fucking regret that. I remember how it went down clearly enough, but I should’ve savored our time together. I should have documented every single second of how it felt to be inside her so I could recall those moments now instead of filling the blanks with my very wild, veryvividimagination.
When I feel myself growing hard, I snap the picture, then pull away, breaking the kiss before I lose my mind completely and do something that will get us both thrown in jail for indecent exposure. Like an old computer, Blondie experiences a few seconds delay, blinking her eyes open so languidly it’s like she’s moving in slow motion. When she finally meets my gaze again,her pupils enlarge, and her cheeks instantly heat, going from a pretty flower petal pink to burnished red.
And…shit. She isbeautiful. I mean, I already knew she was, but it staggers me now more than ever that I never noticed it until recently. Seriously, how wasn’t I stopped in my tracks the very first time I saw her? Because it isn’t the clothes I picked out for her that do it, even though she wears themreallywell. No, what makes her beautiful is the flush of her cheeks that tempts me to run my hand over her skin and feel that warmth against my fingers. It’s the way she parts her lips, goading me to kiss them until we’re both breathless and sated. Above all, it’s the way those piercing eyes fix on mine, making me feel like she can actually see me—or is at least trying to—when I don’t think anyone has seen the real me in a very long time.
I immediately shake that thought away.Stop it, Damian.This isn’t real. It’s just an act. She’s only doing exactly what you’re paying her for. Nothing more. This is business. Keep it professional, and stop reading into shit that isn’t there.
Clearing my throat, I shift my gaze to my phone and open Instagram—not only to distract myself from her bottom lip, which is begging me to suck on it, but because I have a narrative to control. A role to play. We both do.
The rehearsal is over. It’s time to lift the curtain and step onto the stage.
Blondie says nothing. She just watches me in silence as I select the picture I took of us kissing and tap through to the next screen on the app. I don’t tag her (not that I could) or include any explanation or context for the photograph in the caption. Instead, I put only a single emoji.
A heart.
And when I hit ‘share,’ I try my best to ignore that my actual heart is racing.
The probability that this boat trip won’t be painfully awkward? Somewhere between zero and I’d rather be anywhere else.
