She frowned. "But why?"
"Because it's not my house."
"So?"
"So I'm going out, which means you can't stay."
"So I'll come with you."
"Trust me, you're heading out," I said. "But not with me."
She tried for a flirtatious laugh. "But I can't just leave, silly. I'm all dressed up."
Silly?
Silliness was inviting yourself on an errand while insisting that you can't leave the house.Then again, Imogen wasn't known for her consistency.
I gave her outfit – what little there was – a quick glance. "Dressed for what?"
She cocked a hip. "For you, of course."
Yeah. Me and a few million other people.I knew damn well what she'd been doing in the open doorway, and it had nothing to do with me. It had to do with her millions of fans on Instagram and wherever else.
If I knew Imogen, she'd been setting up a selfie – some pseudo-candid shot of her nearly naked body, framed in the open doorway of Flynn Archer's secluded mansion. Flynn was a big movie star, which meant that in Imogen's world, his was a name worth dropping.
Not to me.
To me, Flynn was the closest thing I had to a brother. I'd known him before either of us guys had become famous – me with the books and Flynn in the related movies that had made him a star.
But to Imogen? He was just a name – a good one to drop on her slobbering fans. That's how she worked.
I should know. She'd been droppingmyname non-stop since early this year, when we'd somehow become an item.
I said, "Where's your coat?"
She shook her head. "What coat?"
"The one you arrived in."
She'd shown up in a limo, wearing exactly what she was wearing now, plus a long trench coat – some tan retro thing that had probably cost more than the vehicle that had carried her here.
Her lips curved into a slow smile. "I don't know." She made a show of eyeing my bare chest. "Where's your shirt?"
She knew damn where it was. I'd yanked it off after she'd "accidentally" spilled a bottle of soda water down the front of me.
Wet T-shirts – she had a thing for them. Or maybe she'd just wanted to get the ball rolling as far as getting me out of my clothes.
That was Imogen – subtle to the core.
Ignoring her question, I pulled out my cell phone and started scrolling across the screen.
She asked, "What are you doing?"
"Calling the limo."
"Why?"
"So they can come and get you."
