With a personalized message.
“No bullshit,” he replies, searching my eyes and frowning. “What’s wrong with you? Your eyes are all wide and crazy, and you’re squeezing the shit out of the book in your hand.”
I drop the book on my lap, trying to act cool. “I’m fine,” I say, tucking my hair back behind my ear. “So, just how are you friends with Zada?”
This is huge.
“On a first-name basis are you?” Vinnie asks, smirking. He taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, and I stare at the tattoos covering his knuckles as I answer.
“I love her books,” I admit, shrugging. “Aren’t I allowed to be curious?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Tell you what, you behave yourself for the next week, listen to everything I say, and stay out of trouble, I’ll introduce you to her.”
My eyes flare. “Behave myself? I’m twenty-four, not a damn child.”
Could he possibly look down on me any more? I’ve never met a man so infuriating in my life. It makes me want to act the way he’s accusing me of just to give him a hard time.
He shrugs his broad shoulders flippantly. “You know what I mean. Don’t be a brat. Make my time here a little more pleasant.”
How have I not been pleasant so far?
Gritting my teeth, I stand up and leave the room without a word. Yeah, he is good-looking, with those brown bedroom eyes framed in thick lashes, his sensual lips—even if they’ve mainly been pursed in a tight line in my presence—and the delicious body I know is hidden underneath that black T-shirt, but he is a dick.
He wanted me to behave?
How old is he? A couple of years older, at the most, and he’s acting like I’m a kid and he’s in charge. I walk upstairs to my bedroom and lie back on my bed, the white sheets soft against my skin. As I stare at the ceiling, I think over everything he’s said to me today.
He thinks I’m a brat?
A plan forms in my head.
I’ll show him just how bratty I can be.
I think it’s time to teach Vinnie a lesson.
* * *
The next morning, after yoga, I take a shower, washing my long dark hair, then toweling it dry. By the time I’m dressed in my jeans and a white top, and my hair and makeup are sorted, it’s only 8:00 a.m., so I clean my room to pass the time. When it’s spotless I grab my Chanel bag and head downstairs. I come to a standstill when I look outside and see Vinnie doing push-ups outside by the pool. It’s like a view from a movie. Gorgeous pool, beautiful sunny day, and a man too sexy to be real. Where did this guy come from? I need to go there.
His body is even better than I’d imagined.
His back is perfectly muscled and covered in tattoos, a sheen of sweat glazing his skin. I press myself against the sliding door for a closer look. Who knew a man doing push-ups could be so sexy? I watch as his arms flex with each movement, mesmerized. I continue to hover by the door, just staring at him like a creep.
Why are the good-looking men always egotistical jerks?
When he quickly stands and looks up, straight into my eyes, I mutter a curse under my breath. I’m standing, body pressed against the door, perving on him, and he caught me. Just great. Trying to cover up, I open the door and call out, “I’m ready when you are,” then walk away to the kitchen, mentally cursing myself. A few seconds later I hear the sliding door close before he joins me. He doesn’t comment on the fact that I’m up early and ready before him. Instead, all he says is, “Enjoy the view?”
I open the fridge and look inside, avoiding having to look at him for as long as I can. “What view?”
Oh, I knew what view, but I had to try to save face. The last thing he needs to know is that I find him attractive. No, he doesn’t need to know that at all, especially because it doesn’t matter, since nothing is going to come from it. Except maybe his ego inflating even further.
I close the fridge and make myself look at him.
My gaze instantly drops.
Oh, shit.
His abs. They are perfect. No—they are everything. Not too ripped, but deliciously defined. Abs you’d see on the cover of a magazine.
I didn’t get a good look at those before, but now I do. I let my gaze linger for only a second before I look into his eyes. “Can we leave earlier? I’m ready and eager to get out of the house.”
I change the subject and hope that he doesn’t call me out on it.
He smirks knowingly but replies only with a “Sure, let me grab a quick shower and we’ll go.”
Yet he doesn’t make a move to leave.
“What?” I ask when he continues to stare at me—that smug, amused expression on his face making me want to punch him.
“Nothing,” he says, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Just didn’t think I’d be your type.”
So much for his leaving it alone.
“That’s because you’re not my type,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at him. I can’t believe the things that come out of this man’s mouth. If he were a gentleman, he wouldn’t have mentioned anything at all. So what if I checked him out a little? I don’t know any women who wouldn’t, although I’ll never admit to that out loud.
“Your wide eyes and shallow breathing say otherwise,” he says, grinning, his brown eyes alight with humor.
“I think you must have a really big imagination,” I say, tilting my head to the side and studying him. “You one of those men who needs attention from women to feel validated?”