Page 40 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
From out of nowhere, Heather appears with a tray full of small wineglasses that she holds up and sets on the deck beside us.
“Complimentary wine tasting,” she says. “All of these are produced from local grapes and are available in our gift shop. I’d be happy to tell you a little more about them. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thanks, Heather,” Rafe says.
We both sit silently till she’s gone. I glance at the wineglasses, noting the charms at the base of each glass, identifying the varieties.
“Nice bikini,” Rafe says.
“Thanks, it’s Lorelei’s,” I say, grateful that I packed it. Not that it offers much coverage, but it’s something.
“Well, you wear it well.” Rafe bobs in the water, watching me. This would normally stress me out, but it’s impossible to feel stressed with the warm water pulsing all the tension out of my body.
“Is that your way of saying I can pass for Lorelei after all?” I ask him.
Rafe sends a splash of water my way. “Stop. There’s nothing lacking about your body,” he says. “In fact, I think—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt him. “But this,” I say, gesturing to myself, “is not likeyourbody.”
“Thanks for noticing my sparkling personality.” Rafe rolls his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I could pretend that you aren’t drop-dead gorgeous, but we both know you are, so what’s the point? You’re like freakingperfect.It’s intimidating.”
“I assure you, I am not perfect,” Rafe grumbles. He dunks himself under the water and comes to sit next to me.
“Check this out,” he says, then sticks out his foot.
“What?” I ask. “It’s a foot.”
“Look closer,” he says, still holding the foot aloft. I run my eyes along his muscled calf, pretending it’s my hand, over his ankle, down to his instep and his arch, up to his toes …
Oh.
“You see?” he says, reading the surprise on my face. “Troll foot. All the men in my family have hairy toes. Lorelei loves to tease me about it, and so do my sisters. I’m getting them waxed later.”
He lowers his foot with a splash.
“So, as you can see, I am not perfect.” Rafe leans back, positioning himself in front of a jet. He is sitting so close to me now. Our hips are just inches apart.
“Okay fine, you win. You are not perfect. But you’re as close as it gets. I know it’s part of your job to look good, and that’s why you work out so much and all that.”
Who the hell cares about toe hair, anyway?
“My acting job isn’t why I work out.” Rafe dunks himself again. He blows out a stream of bubbles while he is underwater. When he comes up, he grabs one of the glasses of wine from the tray sitting on the deck beside us, and drinks it down in three sips.
“Mmm … not bad,” he says. He picks up another and hands it back toward me.
“Pinot Noir. Thanks. My fave.” I sip the wine.
“Want to know why I work out so much?” he asks, picking up a second glass. “It’s because I’m afraid I’ll drop dead in my forties like my dad did.”
“I feel that so much. I’m only twenty-seven, but I pay out of pocket to go and get a mammogram every year,” I admit.
“Huh,” he says. “You know what you said when you were sleeping?”
I have no idea what I said, and I’m not sure I want to know.
“It’s usually just gibberish,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like in the movies when people confess their deepest, darkest secrets.”
