Page 22 of The Love Lie
Not ready? What does that mean—not ready?
What the hell happened in that dream suite!?The more she’s left to wonder, the more and more obscene the fantasies she conjures become. Did they break the bed? Were there handcuffs? Toys? What did he do? She can’t stop picturing herself in all these wild scenarios, because, well, she and Em look exactly the same, and honestly, she hasn’t had a good lay in a while, and—
Stop.
Heat flares up her throat to spread across her cheeks. It’s not a blush—she is NOT blushing. And her nipples definitely haven’t peaked. And the flutters deep in her belly are hunger pangs. Nothing more.
Sex hunger pangs.
Her inner bitch is a backstabbing sloot.
STOP.
“Are you two coming?” Nina calls as she leans over the railing above.
“Yup,” Cooper answers.
Sam wrestles her raging hormones to the ground, and walks with him over the gangway and onto the yacht.
“Shot?” Nina extends a tray.
Sam takes both and downs them one after another before Cooper can even lift his hand.
The producer widens her eyes with a grin. “Is fun Emily coming out today?”
More like reckless, sad, numbing-her-pain-with-alcohol Samantha, but she fights the urge to correct Nina. Her sister has never needed booze to be fun. The most fun Sam can ever remember having in her life are the nights the two of them used to spend doing nothing—watching movies, playing cards, chitchatting while they painted their nails, belting out songs as they rummaged through their closets to try on clothes. Nothing has been the same since she left home for NYU. Nothing has felt as joyful, asright.
But that’s life. Who is she to complain? Playing happy has become second nature and this is just another role, another day.
So aloud, all Sam says is, “Hell yeah!”
“Where can I get a beer?” Cooper asks with a laugh.
“The bar is back there.” Nina jabs her thumb over her shoulder, then hooks her arm through Sam’s. “But the party is over here.”
The producer leads her through the main cabin, up the stairs, and out onto a sundeck. Trish reclines on a lounger with her phone to her ear, lips pursed. Fred is out cold by her side.
Sam turns to Nina with a raised brow. “You call this a party?”
“I do now.” The producer grins and hands Sam a margarita before clinking their glasses. “Cheers!”
She takes a sip, because why not, and tries to figure out what Em would do in this situation. Probably sit in one of the chairs and pull out her sketchbook. But seeing as Sam has absolutely no artistic talent and is in desperate need of a distraction from the hulking redhead sauntering her way like a panther on the hunt, she turns to Nina instead. “Hot tub?”
“Let’s do it. Cooper, you in?”
Sam stifles her groan. The last thing she needs is him, half-naked, wet, and oozing rugged masculinity right by her side.
“In for what?” he asks.
“Hot tub.”
Please say no. Please say no.
As if he can hear, he turns to her with a wink, copying her earlier words. “Hell yeah.”
Fuck my life.
Sam takes a long swill of margarita as he reaches over his head and pulls off his shirt in one annoyingly hot tug. Just like when she watched him emerge from the ocean this morning, her throat runs dry at the sight of his truly glorious torso, all rippling muscle and tanned skin and rock-hard flesh. She doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to rake her gaze over every inch of his bare skin, doesn’t want to study each firm ridge as if she might be tested on it later, doesn’t want to taste the drool pooling on her tongue, and yet…
