“I think Elle’s reaction is the least of your worries. The headline is going to be something like ‘Hart-Rivers on Again?’ We don’t want that rumor spreading.”
“What difference does it make?” Who cared if people thought they were dating? Apparently he did. Was the idea of being her boyfriend really that hideous? Hell, maybe it was to him. Personally, she could think of a lot worse lies the media could write about her.
“I just don’t like people having an opinion on my private life.” Then he glanced at her and smiled. “Though you did look cute with my shirt on your head.”
“You’ve lost your mind.” She held it out to him. “I’m taking a shower. Then, paparazzi or not, we need to go get some supplies. Like your whiskey and my bait. I still aim to catch a few catfish.” She had intended to go makeup-free for the majority of their time there, but it looked like she was going to have to shellac her face as usual, in case a picture was snapped.
“Want some company?” Chance teased.
The truth was, she did. Enough of this nonsense. If he was going to throw down challenges about naked songwriting and kiss her and walk around shirtless and sexy, then she was going to call his bluff.
Sometimes you knew something was a bad idea. Everyone was telling you it was a bad idea, but you insisted on being stubborn (like that time she’d worn the floral dress with the giant bow on her ass to the Grammys). In the aftermath, you wished like hell you had listened to someone, anyone.
Jolene had a feeling having sex with Chance was going to be one of those times.
Yet she was still going to do it.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. I need someone to wash my back, and it might as well be you.”
Chance raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious?” He sounded turned on. Intrigued. And maybe a tiny bit nervous.
She liked to think that she rattled him. She grinned. “Yes. I’m very serious. We’re here to explore all the facets of our relationship, right? Besides, if TMZ is going to run that we’re knocking boots, at the very least I want it to be true.”
Chance was still in his underwear, and she could see that he had a nice thick erection. Ready for her. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m going to go get my pants and my guitar. I’ll meet you in the shower in five minutes.”
“Okay, then.” Instantly, her heart started to race and her hoohah heated up. They were doing this. Damn the consequences.
Chance pulled a pair of shorts out of his suitcase and stepped into them. Jolene unzipped her own bag, searching out shampoo and body wash. Sexy times or not, her hair needed to be dealt with. Dolly lay down on the wood floor and gave a sigh. Jolene could sympathize with her.
Once she had all her gear gathered, along with a fresh pair of panties, she went to the adjoining bathroom. It was new and clean and featured a decent-sized shower. She reached in and turned on the water before unhooking her bra and dropping it to the floor. She shimmied out of her panties and stepped in with her shampoo and conditioner bottles, bending over to rest them on the shelf.
“Holy shit…”
Jolene jumped at the sound of Chance’s voice. “Lord, you scared me. How the heck are you back so fast?” She whipped around, fighting the urge to cover her bits with her hands. He’d seen everything she had six ways to Sunday. There was no point in being shy now. But it was instinct. She lowered her hands and stepped back into the spray. Let him look his fill.
He definitely was. He was just standing on the other side of the glass, drinking in the sight of her. His hands were in fists at his sides. When she lifted her hands to push her hair back into the water, he made a sound in the back of his throat that she couldn’t help gloating over. It had the added effect of turning her on completely. Her nipples tightened and her inner thighs went damp. “Coming?” she asked him.
Chance tore at the zipper on his shorts, dragging them down right along with his underwear. “Any minute now, if I’m lucky. And I feel lucky.”
She had to laugh. “Subtle. What happened to the poetic guy I used to know?”
“I may be inspired to write a song about this. How is that for poetry?” He opened the shower door.
“It depends on what the lyrics are.”
“A classic country tale of a man struck dumb by a woman. How he feels like a rusted truck next to her Cadillac style.”
Oh, Lord. He hadn’t even been drinking. There was nothing Cadillac about her. Nor was he a rusted truck. She’d always thought of him as a motorcycle. From zero to ninety quickly, and with a lot of noise.
“Does that make me classic?” she asked, trying to make light of it. He was just standing there, staring at her, and she felt nervous all of a sudden. Being naked with Chance was familiar, yet everything was different. It was like returning home and finding all the furniture rearranged. Unsettling.