He laughs. “Just like that, huh?”
“Yep. It’s better than standing here apologizing to each other, right?”
His eyes sparkle as they run over me, this time with heat. Is he imagining how I look in a bikini? He’s about to find out what a two thousand dollar swimsuit can do to a body that’s been tweaked and sculpted to perfection. He doesn’t know that I don’t have to imagine the gift his sport gave the universe when it formed him. As much as I’m loving the button-down, I’d much prefer it off. But I hadn’t been thinking about that when I made the suggestion. Well, not entirely. Mostly, an activity gives me a buffer. Stillness is the enemy. I’m not ready for him to learn the truth about Genevieve Fox.
That she’s no one.
“Where should I change?” he asks, holding up the shorts in his hand.
“Oh, right. There’s a bathroom just through that corridor, or you’re welcome to use the pool house. There’s a full dressing area, sauna, and shower there.”
He nearly winces at that. “Bathroom is fine,” he says with a quick smile.
I force one as well, clasping my hands behind me as he takes off down the hall. Am I blowing it? I feel like I’m blowing it, but I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. Sexy outfit: check. Perfect hair: check. Luxurious mansion: check. Plus, I’m one of the biggest names in the world. I’m any young, available guy’s fantasy wet dream. He wouldn’t have come if he wasn’t interested. He certainly wouldn’t have broken things off with that other woman for this. And yet… you’re no one. Coldness washes through me. What if he’s already figured that out? What if the shine of Genevieve Fox isn’t enough for once? I don’t get close enough for people to see past it, so this would be uncharted waters. I’ll have to turn up the dial even more to keep that from happening.
Wine. Oliver may not drink, but I have to.
While he changes, I open the bottle he brought and give myself a healthy pour. I haven’t eaten much today, so hopefully the alcohol goes straight to my head. Just enough to take the edge off so I stop thinking so much around him. People love me because I seem shallow. Shallow is easy. Safe. I satisfy expectations. I smile and make them important by association. This constant saturation with Oliver isn’t going to work if I have any hope of keeping him. He can’t know what the mirror knows. That I’m not shallow; I’m empty.
By the time he returns, I’ve polished off one glass and poured another. For someone who doesn’t drink, he has good taste in wine.
And swimsuits. Holy…
He comes down the hall all quiet confidence in navy blue board shorts riding low on his hips. It’s like watching a walking anatomy diagram. Here lies the rectus abdominus. Over here you will see the external oblique. One full glass of wine on an empty stomach thinks that’s incredibly hilarious, and quite possibly, the sexiest thing it’s ever seen. It also wants to touch. Badly.
“You’re laughing. That’s not a good sign,” he says, joining me in the kitchen.
I shake my head, the wine now fully kicking in. “Only about the fact that you’re pretty much perfect, aren’t you.”
“Perfect?” he echoes, amused. He scans me for a second before his gaze slides to the open bottle. “Ah. The wine is okay, then?”
“The wine is great! Let’s swim!”
I grab his hand and drag him toward the glass doors leading to the pool deck.
He chuckles, and I already feel better at the sound. Laughter I can work with. Lust, I live for, and yank my short dress over my head as soon as we step onto the patio. I feel his stare before I see it. Good. I take my time with the seduction, stripping slowly, and bending low to drop the discarded garment on a chaise lounge. When I look back his eyes have flared hot.
“Pool is heated, so the water should be nice,” I say, brushing past him to step into it. When he doesn’t follow, I turn back and toss my most seductive of seductive looks. His gaze runs over me again, hungry and intense, but his smile dims the longer he stares. Something isn’t right.
“What’s wrong? Do you not like my suit?” I bat my eyes to extra-flirt levels.
Of course he likes it. It was designed to make guys like him fall at the feet of girls like me. I wore it for him. For this very moment where I had no intention of showing mercy. Except he’s not falling. Or moving. Or speaking. Or doing any of the things I need him to be doing right now. If anything, he’s backed further from the edge of the pool.
“You look great,” he says, but there’s nothing flirtatious in his tone.
“Then what is it? You know how to swim, right? An elite athlete like you?” I tease. Or the wine does. I can’t tell if that was a good line or not. Maybe not when his gaze darkens slightly. “If not, I can show you.” I lower my lids to sultry and jut out my chest, but the reaction I get is the opposite of what I expect. It’s like the harder I try, the less interested he is. A small ember of panic ignites in my belly.
I force a smile. “Did I do something wrong?” I try for flirty, but it’s hard with him staring at me like that. His expression is severe, confused.
“The mirror in the bathroom,” he says finally. “Why is it covered?”
I freeze. All the wine in my head drains to my stomach in a violent rush of nausea. He tilts his head when I don’t respond, studying me. I don’t like it. I feel naked, exposed. Like he sees past the shine to the dirt beneath it. He softens after another moment, and I hate his look of pity even more.
His sigh. I’ve never hated a sound so much in my life.
“Look, Genevieve, you seem to have a lot going for you. I’m sure you have your pick of guys.” He adds a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. His light is pulling away. I watch it dim with each second, each word of his retreat. I’ve lost him. I’ve lost the color he brought in our brief acquaintance. The panic returns, whooshing through my head in a dizzying swirl. I grip the edge of the pool, my fingers tightening to painful levels on the concrete ledge.
I don’t want my pick. I want real. I want light. I want you.
I don’t say that. I rock against the current of the water.
Don’t go. Please!
He clears his throat. “Anyway, thank you again for your invitation. It was very nice of you.”
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
He starts toward the sliding glass door.
No one cries like her.
His back ripples with tension at each step. His fists are clenched. I can’t see his eyes. His smile. It’s gone. All of it. Before it began, I broke everything.
No one’s heart beats and bleeds like hers.
I’m bleeding. So much blood gushing beneath this polished façade that no one will ever see. Not my parents. Not my manager. Not my millions of fans. Not even Hadley, the only person who actually knows me.
No one. No one. No one.
“I hate them!”
I gasp and cover my mouth as he stops in his tracks. He turns slowly, his gaze deep and intense.
“You hate what?”
“Mirrors. I hate them,” I say quietly. “They remind me that I—I’m not what I’m supposed to be.”
“And what are you supposed to be?”
Tears burn in my eyes. He has to stop looking at me like that. I can’t think. I can’t fight.
“Whatever they want.” The words leak out as a whisper. Wet. Angry. “I have to be what they want.”
He steps forward. “Did you think you had to be what I want today?”
I blink back the hot liquid, but it doesn’t work. Instead, it rolls down my cheeks in a brutal betrayal. I nod.
“Did you think I came here because you’re the Genevieve Fox?”
I nod again.
He almost looks angry as he takes another step toward me. And another. And another until he’s at the edge of the pool, staring down at me. I can’t see his face anymore, can’t read his eyes. He’s just a shadow against the blare of the sun. Towering over me, converting light into darkness. He’s a god in our tiny universe, the one who holds th
e power of this moment. But instead of exploiting it, he crouches down. The light floods back, and I flinch at his adjustment, knowing how difficult that position is for him.
“Your knee,” I say before I can stop myself. I reach out and brush my fingers over a small scar. That’s when I also see the change in his face. The softness. The sincerity. He captures my fingers in his hand and squeezes gently.
“I came, Genevieve, because you helped me up despite the cameras. Because you asked about my family when everyone else asks about my injury. Because for five damn minutes I felt like more than an injured hockey player.”
He reaches over and runs his thumb along my cheek, catching tears, tracking fresh trails. I close my eyes and breathe in his touch. In. Out. Breathe. I can breathe in his presence.
“I don’t want you to be what I want. I want you to be you. Can you do that with me?”
When I dare a look back, I not only see the question, but the hope. The plea. He wants the girl in the mirror. My pulse pounds. I cling harder to his hand.
“I don’t know her,” I whisper, turning frightened eyes up to him. “I don’t know the girl in the mirror. What if…” I can’t finish the sentence as the tears return. What if she’s too broken to fix?
He straightens his bad leg, drawing in a deep inhale against the discomfort. I’m tense with fear, until I realize it’s only so he can slip into the water with me. The air around us feels different when he pulls me into his arms. Lighter, more sustainable. I tighten my hold around him, burrowing into his hard chest as the thud of his heart becomes my universe.
He rests his lips against my hair.
“Then we find her.”
CHAPTER 3
Diamond bright, how you sparkle
Rich indulgence you spread delight
Diamond bright, how they clamor
To plunder your unguarded treasure
Those parasites
Those thieves of light
Those borrowers of others’ dreams
They’ll claw and smother until you’re just another
rock
OLIVER
Who’s the girl in the mirror? I have no damn clue, but I sure as hell want to know her more than the tipsy party girl who met me after I came out of the bathroom. I don’t have time for games. Never have, and with six family members relying on me, I’m definitely not starting now. My stakes aren’t just high, they’re non-negotiable, so yeah, even Genevieve Fox wasn’t going to tempt me into playing. Except when she drops the act, she’s mesmerizing. Is she beautiful? No. She’s fucking breathtaking. Long, dark red hair, almost violet. Vibrant green eyes. Hell, if you look close in the sun, you can see flecks of brown that draw you in and make it impossible to look away. So when she turned them up at me a minute ago, glistening beneath a sheen of tears, I was hooked. Yep, felt the line catch and jerk me right to the edge of the pool where that sharp sucker dug into my soul and dragged me through a busted knee down to the ledge.
Who’s the girl in the mirror? She’s now the girl in my arms.
I run my fingers through her hair as she clings to me. When’s the last time someone held her? The way she’s clutching my back, I suspect the answer would make me sick. Maybe angry. Okay, yeah, I’m angry that she’s been mangled to the point where she can’t even face a mirror. Where she actually believed she had to put on a show to get my attention. Because this woman doesn’t need to do anything to get a man’s attention. Walk in a room. Breathe the same air. Turn her head in my direction, and I was riveted. It wasn’t until she made herself into something else that she lost me. And now? Heaven help me. She’s triggered every protective bone in my body, and with four younger sisters, god knows that’s pretty much all of them.
“You okay?” I ask gently. Honestly, I could stand here all day. She’s right: the water is warm. Her body is pressed into mine, and she smells like starlight. Starlight? I don’t know. Radiance. Bright and blinding. I close my eyes to breathe in more of it.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. The heat of her breath sears into my chest. The brush of her lips against my skin sends a shudder through me.
“For what?”
“All of this. We don’t even know each other and—”
“And it’s too early for something real?” I pull back enough so she can see my smile. She sends a weak one back.
“I’m not used to real.”
“I can tell. But I don’t have much patience for anything else.”
Her smile spreads into real, and I pull in a sharp inhale at the effect. “I can tell,” she echoes.
It almost hurts, her real smile. Plunges into your gut and lodges deep. That beam will scar me. I already feel the burn of eternal heat.
What hope do I have as I brush a few lingering tears from her cheek? So soft. So perfect like everything else about her. It’s ridiculous that she called me perfect when I’m broken ligaments and scar tissue. She’s the universally accepted standard of perfection. Is there a publication that hasn’t splashed her image beside a headline about her beauty? I’m a hockey player who can’t play hockey. An elite athlete who can’t even fucking walk right.
I clench my jaw and plug the negative spiral before it starts. Camille would be pissed if she heard me say something like that. I almost laugh at the thought of my sister’s glare when we video-chatted earlier. She may be two years younger, but she’s more like Mom than Mom half the time. Don’t you ever talk about my brother like that, Oliver Levesque. He’s the best person I know.
I usually respond with something like, if that’s true, you should get out more, which earns me another glare. Secretly, though, it’s shit like that that makes you get up at five-thirty every day, jump on the elliptical or into the pool, and fight through the pain. Take the abuse and beg for more. It makes you eat the most disgusting food, drink the most disgusting shakes, and pass on temptation after temptation because there is no universe where I will look Camille in the eye and tell her I gave up. That I’m less than she believes, because they all deserve a brother and a son who believes as well. I deserve that, and so does Genevieve Fox.
She drops her arms and steps back, shaking slightly. Is she cold? The thought makes me tense.
“Tell me about your favorite sibling,” she says. The pretense is gone, replaced with a longing that squeezes my heart.
“I don’t have a favorite,” I say, propping my elbows behind me on the pool deck as I lean against the edge. Her gaze travels over me slowly, covetously. She licks her lips and a spark of awareness fires straight to my groin.
“Come on. Yes you do.” Her grin grows at my smile. “I knew it. Tell me about that one.”
“Fine. You’re going to get me in trouble one day, I can tell.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Pinky swear.” She wades forward, holding out her hand.
“Pinky swear?”
She leans in, looping her little finger around mine. The contact sends a rush of heat through my blood. Her eyes darken with awareness as they lift to my face.
“You’ve never done a pinky swear?”
“Is that what this is?” I ask, gently shaking our connected fingers.
“Yes. It’s a sacred oath.” She tugs our hands until they’re hovering between us. A symbol. An invitation. The simmer becomes a blistering surge. Instinctively, my other four fingers entwine with hers. This time when I pull my arm back to its resting place on the edge of the pool, Genevieve comes with it. The heat of her registers first. Then the softness. Then… my lungs suck in a heavy breath. Her other hand brushes over my stomach, climbing slowly. Exploring. Her gaze locks on the path of her palm, hungry and fascinated.
“Her name is Camille,” I force out. My voice is strained now, and her fingers sink into my chest.
“That’s beautiful.” Her tone is pained as well, and I search her face. Is the longing for me or for family? Both, I think. She’s an intoxicating blend of fire and sadness right now. “Tell me about her,” she says. Her hand
moves again, torching my skin wherever it touches. Up my shoulder, over my neck—streaks of flames. Her fingers snake into my hair and lock in a gentle grip.
I hiss in a breath when she tugs and forces us closer. Her body, magnetized and imploring, strokes mine in all the right places. Her chest lifts in shallow pants, her eyes wide and beseeching. There was a question in all of this. I vaguely remember a conversation that started innocently enough. She releases my hand to slide her fingers along my jaw, her gaze locked on my lips. Her other hand clenches harder in my hair. I’m granite now, rigid with anticipation and need. My focus drops to the swell of her breasts pillowed against my stomach, nearly exposed. Suddenly, she surges from the water, locking her legs around my waist and clinging to me. Her hips hook into mine and slide against my erection. Her sigh—completely paralyzing. I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t breathe, as she opens up in a direct invitation. She shifts further into alignment, digging her hips deeper against me. I breathe in her scent, overwhelming as I tighten my grip on her thighs to hold her in place. She’s light. Delicate, but firm at the same time. She must work on her body as much as I do.
“I have to be what they want.”
Her confession gnaws at me. Drives an angry wedge between everything I instinctively feel about her and my conscience. How can I ever know what’s real? How can I show her I want more than the show she puts on for everyone else? That I’m more.
I force one of my hands away from her incredible body. Letting her go is like yanking free from an industrial suction. My hands clearly don’t agree with my brain on this, but every second I stare into her gorgeous face, I know—I know—if this were Camille or Lea or Zoe, if they were hurting and desperate, I’d expect more from the man they turned to. I’d expect everything, which is why instead of devouring Genevieve’s lips, I gently brush them with my thumb. Instead of stripping off that magnificent bikini top, I tug the strap until it’s comfortably back in place.
Her expression pinches in surprise, then disappointment, and I offer a smile to soften the rejection. But until it’s the girl in the mirror who wants me, I can’t accept. I won’t.
Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3) Page 3
