Page 65 of Whiskey Splash

Arie gyrates her hips, making it clear she means I’ll be taming a bucking stallion.

“Mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm,” my sister mock-moans.

“I need to take a shower,” I say, shaking my head and trying to ignore the tingling in my lower regions.

“Oh, I bet you do!” she winks at me, still undulating like a horny dragon.

“Call Connor,” I say, tossing one of my balled-up sheets at her. “Do that to him. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Great idea!” Arie says, pulling out her phone as I walk toward the bathroom. “You know you love me, sis.”

I walk into the shower and discard all my clothes, not wanting to look in the mirror and face what I actually look like. I turn the water up to cold.

Cold.

Really freaking cold!

Chapter Sixteen

Desmond’s teenage assistant, Tam, picks me up in the morning in a nondescript rental car. He’s all smiles and sunshine in his khakis and polo uniform as he tells me to sit in the front seat.

“Mr. Pike is already on set,” Tam explains, as I get into the car. “They’ve got him in hair and make-up right now. We’ll probably arrive as they’re getting ready to shoot the first scene.”

I nod, smoothing out the flowy pale-yellow shirt with embroidered flowers that I’m wearing. I’ve paired it with some jean shorts and a pair of strappy gladiator-style sandals that wrap up my calves and feel a bit excessive, but I’m going to a movie set. I don’t know what you wear to something like that. Hollywood people are stylish all the time, right? Even if they’re shooting Desmond out of a cannon, they’re probably wearing Gucci as they do it.

“Is it weird for me to be on set?” I ask Tam, who pulls out of my driveway and starts weaving through the streets. “Aren’t these movie shoots usually secretive?”

“They’re not open to the public if that’s what you mean,” Tam says, shrugging. “But this isn’tBillionaire Heat.It’s not like he’s shooting a romantic scene.”

“Yeah, that would be awkward,” I say sheepishly, realizing Desmond really must take his clothes off in front of people all the time for Tam to be making a crack like that. I pick at my fingernails and try to pretend I’m not thinking about the fact thatBillionaire Heatis still on television and that Desmond’s day job, when he returns to Los Angeles, will be pretending to sleep with beautiful people.

“It’s actually a pretty cool scene today,” Tam chimes in, like he knows how awkward that got. “It’s a big action scene, explosions, that kind of stuff.” I nod, telling myself it’s all smoke and mirrors and make believe. “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Pike doesn’t usually invite people to set.”

I study Tam to see if he only said that to be kind, or if the idea of Desmond never inviting anyone to set simply makes me some weird experiment. “Mr. Pike?” I say, remembering how formal Tam was with his boss when we came into the Penthouse the other night. Tam was allSir-this andSir-that. “Does he ask you to call him that?”

“No.” Tam shakes his head. “I think it’s polite. Usually, he rags on me for being so formal with him.”

“Are you a new assistant then?”

“Four years,” he says without a beat. “He hired me right after signing forBillionaire Heat.”

“Wait,” I squint at Tam, trying to do the math in my head. “How old does that make you?”

“Twenty-three, Ma’am,” he says. “I’ve got the face of an angel—that’s what Mr. Pike says. He hired me when no one else would; they all thought I was too soft for this business.”

“Are you?” I ask without thinking and he smiles kindly.

“Probably,” Tam admits. “If I worked for anyone else, I’m sure they’d eat me alive. It’s nice to work for someone whose ego isn’t so inflated they feel like they’re allowed to treat everyone like their own personal minion.”

“So …” I start, watching Tam as he turns off the main road and heads toward the ocean. We start winding down a dirt street surrounded by trees. “You’re telling me Desmond plays a womanizing ego-maniac sex God on television, but in real life he’s Mr. Altruism with a heart of gold?”

Tam laughs, blushing softly. “At the risk of ruining his reputation, basically.”

“And what reputation might that be?” I ask tentatively.

“That he’s the guy he plays on television.”

“Which he’s not?”

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