He’s teasing.
“I guess I do. But my face doesn’t turn red.”
“Okay, if you say so. Now give me your hand,” he says, as if he thinks I’ll just do as he says. And I do. I take a deep breath and stand on my toes. I close my eyes, willing away my fear of heights.
“Hey, look at me.”
Again, his tone is commanding and again I don’t hesitate to do what he says, which is so not like me. But there’s something in the way his voice dips low that urges me to follow.
“Now keep your back straight and step down. Don’t lean forward. That’s the trick.”
I do as he says and before I know it, my hand drops from his grip and I’m clutching the railing. I did it, and without falling.
He grins. “See, nothing to it.”
I smile. “You’re right. Nothing to it.”
The color of his stormy gray eyes seems to intensify. He turns and takes the rest of the stairs, then waits for me at the bottom. “And your face didn’t even turn red this time.”
“My face does not turn red.”
“But it does. And you want to know something?” he says, leaning forward like he has a secret to tell.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper back.
“I know it turns red when you’re upset, I’m just not sure when else.”
My eyes flicker over his face.
“What?” He smirks. “Don’t be mad. I think it’s cute.”
I roll my eyes. “Go!” I order. “Let’s put these towels in the washing machine and get back upstairs before Dahlia burns the house down.”
***
The Hollywood sign is clearly visible in the star-filled night sky from where we sit. Heat lamps keep us warm and votive candles flicker around us on the top pool deck. Half-drunk glasses of Chianti, a large bowl of leftover spaghetti carbonara, a dish of lime wedges, and crumbs from the basket of garlic bread litter the table.
I grin as I watch Jagger squeeze a lime into his beer. I’d seen him do the same with his glass of water earlier and my curiosity peaks.
“Do you put lime in everything?”
He smirks, lifting one side of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess I do. Anything liquid, anyway. I’m not sure why.”
I shrug. “Maybe just because you like the taste?”
“Maybe. Funny thing is I’m not sure I can taste it. It’s just a habit.”
“That makes sense. I put ground pepper on all my food.”
He raises a brow. “All your food?”
“Well except for sweets.”
He nods and his eyes focus on me.
Needing to escape his scrutiny, I push my plate aside. “Natalie really outdid herself this time. That has to be the best pasta dish I’ve ever had.”
Dahlia turns to me. “Oh, Natalie didn’t cook.”
“You did?” I question.
She laughs. “Aerie, you know me better than that. No matter how hard I try I can’t even make grilled cheese without burning it.”
I laugh. It’s so true. I lift an eyebrow and cock my head toward River.
He puts his hands up in surrender. “Takeout and the microwave, that’s my idea of cooking. You know that.”
Fingers tap on the table as my head twists. My heart pounds steadily. Wavy hair, a sexy, slender frame, broad shoulders, and those dimples blaring full force, baring a grin that says it all are staring at me.
“You made the spaghetti sauce?”
“Yes I did,” Jagger proudly answers.
I blink. “Tell me again where you came from?”
“In my house you either learned to cook or ate PB&J every night.”
During dinner I was brought up to speed on how River’s cousin came to stay at their house. Jagger Kennedy grew up in New York City with his father. His mother, Celeste, and River’s mother, Charlotte, are sisters. Celeste lives in Paris and works for Hermès. I knew the orange laces of his boots looked familiar. Celeste visited Jagger whenever she traveled to the city on business and he visited her, but he was never in France when River and his family visited. Jagger’s father works for Tom Ford and his parents met while his father was in Paris for fashion week many years ago. A short-lived affair led to an unexpected pregnancy and neither his mother nor his father wanted to give up their jobs. Celeste’s career was very demanding and so she was okay with allowing Jagger’s father to raise him in the states. He seems to not harbor any animosity about the situation.
River and Dahlia met Jagger when they were on their honeymoon in Paris and he was visiting his mother. What brought him to LA we haven’t gotten to yet. But I have learned he is fluent in French, and since I took four years of it in high school, we conversed a little in the language of love. Well, to be honest, very little—my French is really rusty.
Dahlia stands up. “I’m going to make some coffee, and Aerie I bought a new flavor of tea for you.”
I smile and then look at her hand mitted in thick white bandages. “Let me do it.”
River rises. “No, let me. This could be fun. I see a lot of trading in our future,” he says grinning at his wife.
When she steps into him, she’s almost as tall as he is. She wraps her arm around his neck and whispers into his ear. The grin that slides across his face does not leave me wondering what was said. When she drops her hold, her voice takes on a seductive tone. “Come on, lover boy.”
He nips at her lip and I swear he growls as he circles around her. “Your wish is my command.”