Page 30 of Never Been Worse

But other than that, it’s been relatively fine.

We found a spot with an umbrella, laying out our towels and setting my bag to the side before I grabbed some book Ava’s been begging me to read and getting lost. Wes put on a pair of headphones, his hands making twitching movements every so often, confusingly switching from what I think is air guitar to drums on occasion. Not that I’ve been watching, of course.

“I feel like everyone is watching us,” I say quietly, looking around the pool. Occasionally, I’ll catch someone lifting a phone in our direction or see someone who isclearlya paparazzi dressed as a lounger take a photo with a professional camera.

“Then at least look comfortable,” he says, sitting up and turning toward me before grabbing my wrist and tugging.

I follow his lead, putting my back to who I’msureis a photographer, and lowering my voice. “What?”

“Harper, baby, you’re sweating,” he says with a gentle smile. “It’s obvious to everyone around.”

Harper, baby. The words wrap around me, making me shiver and feel safe all the same.

“Really?”

“Yes. Take it off. Take it off, and we’ll take a dip, then you can take your nap and put a towel over your face so you can ignore them.” It...it makes sense. “One photo op and they’ll kind of disappear.”

“Really?” I ask again, feeling like a parrot.

He nods, and I sigh because the towel material of my cover-up is actually making me feel like I might sweat out every ounce of fluid in my body. Slowly and nervously, I cross my arms to my waist, pulling the fabric until it's up and over my head, putting the clothing into my bag.

Wes gives me a wide smile, his eyes never faltering from mine, which, oddly, feels comforting, before his hand reaches out, twining his fingers with mine. He stands, and I follow, his fingers squeezing around mine as we move to the sloping entrance of the pool. We move through the water slowly until we’re against the side of the pool, the water up to Wes’s waist and my ribs.

I can’t fight the urge to look around, feeling as if eyes are still on me. The feeling is confirmed when more than one camera is lifted to snap at us. From what I understand, this wouldn’t be happening under normal circumstances, but since Wes’s team are the ones who dropped the tip, we’re letting them get whatever shots they want.

That’s the whole point, after all.

“Ignore them,” he says low.

“What?”

“The paparazzi. The cameras. Just ignore them.”

I give him a deadpan glare.

“Uh, I’m in the tiniest bikini known to man, thanks to my best friend, and people are taking photos of me that will probably be in grocery store tabloids in a week. I can’t ignore them. This is all very...new to me.”

“It gets easier, but whenever you need me to, I’ll hide you,” he says, his face and his words earnest before he surprises me by showing me. His arm moves out, wrapping around my waist and tugging me into him, my front pressed to his bare chest, his warmth on my skin. His hand moves to brush through my hair like this is normal, and slowly, I let myself relax and ignore the rest of the world, if only for a moment.

“Next week, mark my words, there will be a ‘Who’s the New It Girl’ article published inFans Weeklyabout you. I’ll make sure Leo lets the press know where to find your designs. People will be clamoring for whatever you’re willing to share with them,” Wes says a few minutes later, still in the same, shockingly comfortable position. “Whatever bullshit Jeremy is spinning will be forgotten. The press cycle works like that. But,” he says, so low, I almost feel it more than hear it. “Most of all, I’m excited for everyone to know you’re off the market.”

My breathing falters, and for a moment, I genuinely forget about the paparazzi and the cameras and the eyes for a moment.

“That blush of yours is so fucking pretty.” The words come out so quietly, as if they’re for my ears only. His hand moves, cupping my chin and jaw, a rough thumb grazing over my bottom lip as I stare at him wide-eyed. “And you’re so fucking mine.”

“Wes, we’re not—” I start, but he cuts me off quickly.

“Don’t say it,” he whispers. “Not here, not now.” His arm around my waist tightens, pulling me closer until his face is just inches from mine, and a rush of understanding comes over me.

The cameras.

He’s doing this to give them their pound of flesh so we can move on with the rest of our day in relative peace.

Still, I can’t help but feel giddy at this man, this utter rockstar, giving me this kind of attention. I smile before giving him a small nod. He returns it before pressing his lips to my forehead, and we spend just a few more minutes in the pool before moving back to our chairs, where, as suggested, I put a towel over my face.

But I don’t sleep, despite how much I need it.

No, all I can think about is how confusingly delicious it felt to be in Wes Holden’s arms and for him to call mehis.

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