17
BRYN
I exhale a final relieved breath as the taillights of my father’s SUV become little dots. Though I was caught unprepared by my family’s arrival and unable to warn Mitchell, it turned out better than I expected. Everyone appeared comfortable in front of the camera. Except for what looked like a tense, private conversation after dinner as they cleaned up, Mitchell and my dad seemed to have gotten along.
I head toward the lit house, where Mitchell’s broad and defined outline can be seen through the windows. He’s sweeping the floors, once again proving my first impression of him was wrong. He absolutely knows the value of hard work. If he was born with a silver spoon, he tucked it back in the drawer long ago.
I don’t know how he did it, but he withstood the Aquino inquisition without being torn to shreds. Lesser men would have shriveled at my tito and tita’s cross-examination, at my father’s eagle eyes as he watched Mitchell taste each unfamiliar dish. Others would have decided the inquisition wasn’t worth the girl.
I shake my head to screw it on straight. You’re hilarious—this wasn’t personal; he didn’t do this for you.
He did it for the show, the money. All for business.
As he should have.
I shut down my internal conversation and open the door. Mitchell is finishing up, tucking the dustpan into the handle of the broom. After a quick scan of the kitchen, I realize he’s taken care of the island and countertops, too. “You were so awesome. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be doing a thing.” He puts the broom away in the pantry. “Though I wish you’d told me. We could have celebrated. I could have gotten you a cake.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I love birthdays.”
“Ugh, I don’t. And I did not expect for them to come up. That Victoria—she’s always got something up her sleeve. She had everyone pre-sign the permission slips before they got up here and helped Joey mic everyone up.”
He returns a weak smile. “I don’t have a present for you. Rain check?” He snatches his baseball cap from the island and smashes it onto his head, avoiding my eyes, as if he’s dying to get out of here.
“Rain check, sure. Okay.” Silence ensues while I follow him out of the kitchen. We weave into the living room, passing the staircase to our left. But as he approaches the front door, I stop him. For what, I’m not sure. The vibe between us is laden with something more, something heavy. “Thanks . . . for going with the flow. Especially with the food . . . um . . . test.”
He shrugs, then smiles. “Eh. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced with drill sergeants.”
I wince. “They were that bad?”
He shakes his head, then nods.
I break into laughter. “Yeah, they were. God, I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I’ll just have to take the leftover shreds of my pride and have Granny sew them back together. What matters is we passed and things are good so we can keep going with this . . . arrangement.”
“Exactly. And the good news is you’ll only have to survive my dad through the summer, just until we”—I air quote the next words—“ ‘break up.’ ”
He nods, but just before he turns, I reach out and grab him by the forearm, provoked by his expression. I slink in between him and the door. “The way you’re looking at me. What’s up?”
“Truth, right?” He expels a sigh.
“Yes, absolutely.” The tone of his voice is worrying, and I draw my arms into my body. Mitchell is anything but dramatic.
“I know it was me who roped you into this plan, but after meeting your father, I feel like an asshole.”
“Whoa. Why?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I nudge him gently on his belly. “Speak, you.”
“According to your father, I’m apparently the person who’s going to corrupt you and break your heart.”
I tilt my head up at him and roll my eyes, just to punctuate how I think the notion is silly. “Really.”
“I defended myself, knowing I’m lying to him . . . anyway, you and I know the truth, and we have a deal and that’s all that matters.”
My body relaxes against the door, and a tender feeling sweeps over me. Mitchell’s got more thoughtful and serious under his mellow exterior than I’ve given him credit for. “Aw.”
An eyebrow flies upward. “You didn’t just aw at what I said.”
“Awwww.” I lengthen the word. “I can’t help it. That was so sweet.”
“Look, I know we’ve only been, um . . . together . . . for a short time, but here’s what I get from you. You might not care about everyone else who’s watching, but you care about what your family thinks. Deeply. And for some stupid-ass reason, I care about how they think of me, too.” He reaches around me for the doorknob.
But I don’t want this conversation to end. After all of the touching, the holding hands, his physical closeness, the kiss . . . it doesn’t make sense for him to clam up. Now that he’s dealt with my family, and his concern for me and for us is genuine, I can’t let him walk away without explaining himself.
“Is that the only reason?” I clutch the front of his shirt with both hands, to center him in front of me. The action is both spontaneous and intuitive from being in front of the camera, from being together every day. Still, heat rises to my cheeks because this feels real.
He shakes his head. “I want to prove him wrong. I want to show him I’m not going to hurt you, because you do deserve better. Under other circumstances, this might have worked somehow, if I got over how much of a pain in the rear you are, or that we have a business relationship. But whether or not I convinced him tonight I’m not some jerk is moot. He’ll witness our breakup in August along with the rest of the public and he’ll be right. I’m the fucker who’ll break his baby girl’s heart.”
My breath leaves me, thoughts halted on one sentence. “What do you mean, this might have worked?”
He leans in, then props his arm behind me on the door. The sweep of his smoldering gaze brings up a delicious shiver that begins from the inside out. I hold my breath to still the yearning in my core. “You can’t tell?” he asks.
“What?” My voice is a whisper. Has he heard me talking to myself? Did he hear me argue with the devil on my shoulder?
“That I want you. That I can’t get enough of you during the day. When I’m away from you, all I want to do is get back, right here, so I can find a reason to touch you. That I want to wake up with you in my arms again.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and as it drops to the base of his throat, I swallow in perfect timing.
I shouldn’t reciprocate. This, I know. What we have is technically fake.
Oh, but the heat between us isn’t fake, it’s not contrived by the camera, and he’s just confirmed it.
His face falls in my silence. “I’m gonna go.”
A rush of panic sweeps through me. I was just processing the information he threw at my feet. He can’t say that and just up and leave. “Were you going to let me answer?”
Confusion flashes in his eyes. “I didn’t ask a question.”
“Yes, you did. You asked if I could tell, and no. I couldn’t. But it’s because I’ve been too busy . . . trying to get you out of my head.”
The air between us becomes heady and thick. But a slight upturn of his mouth breaks the ice, and I’m sucked into those eyes of his. “This might be the first time we’ve agreed on anything right off the bat.”
“What do you think we should do next?” I pull him flush against me, knowing what I’m asking for, but I don’t care anymore. The weeks of being at odds with him melt away. He braces my waist with one hand, already familiar with the curve of my body. It takes every part of me not to shut my eyes as I feel his erection against me.
“I know what I want.” He glides a finger against my jawline, up to my ear. “Can I kiss you?”
Pleasure thrums through me. His question is the straw that breaks my resolve. I’ve wanted to kiss him again, to taste his lips and pick up where we left off from our first night together. “Just because you asked. Yes.” I sip in breaths as his lips feather across my cheek and earlobe, down my neck. His hair brushes against my chin, his nose following, lips coming to hover millimeters above mine.
“You and your attitude,” he whispers, and dips down to lick my bottom lip before taking it whole.
Holy hell. The hunger I’ve kept hidden rises in waves as we kiss, and our hands work overtime as they seek every opportunity to discover one another. The kiss drowns out my conscience and snuffs out the logic of why we shouldn’t be doing this, how us being together will lead down a messy road.
Damn the pressure of the camera, of the money, of his and my differences. Right now, all I want is Mitchell’s bare skin under my fingers. I want to delve into him and know more about what makes him tick. I want to take another risk—I want to see if our kiss wasn’t a leftover consequence of wine goggles, if the charge between us wasn’t just made up by me.
I unbutton his shirt while he peels off my flannel top so I’m left with a tank, and he carefully removes our microphones. He sets them down on a side table, though we drop the rest of our clothes like trail markers as we fumble our way to the bottom of the stairs.
He lifts me up by the waist. Our lips pull apart, and in a gymnastics move I haven’t attempted since I was eight years old, I wrap my legs around him. At the connection, desire surges through me, from my toes to my core, to my lips, and I lower my face and kiss him again as he slogs up the stairs, one hand on the banister and another under my ass.
“I’m at the end of the hall,” I say into his mouth, amped, though my imagination has already beaten me to it. Lust and impatience have taken over all logic, and as I squeeze my legs tighter, he pushes my bedroom door with a foot, groaning as both hands squeeze my flesh.
He gently lays me down on my white down comforter. He props himself above me by his elbows, breath heavy. “Someone’s a little excited.”
“No one’s ever carried me up a flight of stairs before.” I pad my fingers on the vein that popped on his forehead, and I track the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The pulse in his neck keeps time with my pounding heart, and this spurs my appetite for him. He’s showing me a truth now—this fascination, this urge, this craving I harbor for him is mutual. And God, I love that. “You get an A-plus for effort.”
“Not for execution?”
I crawl to the top of the bed, to my pillows. “That’s still to be seen.”