“You need to stop being so nosy about my love life,” he countered. “As much as I’m loving this conversation—”Not.“I have to go. Lunch is in the fridge. Donotorder takeout, especially not from that sketchy place down the street. Remember what happened last time?”
They both grimaced, remembering the deceivingly delicious tacos that had sent them running to the bathroom all night long. Talk about Montezuma’s revenge.
“I won’t. Even though reheated chicken tastes like ass,” Skylar grumbled.
“Language.”
“Whatever, Steve Rogers.”
“Nice Captain America reference.”
Nate ruffled his sister’s hair on his way out, which earned himself another scowl. She hated when he did that.
That was what she got for bugging him about getting a girlfriend. You’d think Skylar would be busy enough with school, soccer, and her own social life, but she’d been nosing around his love life for years. He needed to find his “lobster,” she said, proving she watched way too manyFriendsre-runs.
Nate input Kris’s address into Google Maps and turned on the radio, flipping through several screechy pop hits, a maudlin eighties ballad, and a head-splitting metal scream disguised as a song before he settled on a tolerable indie-rock jam.
He’d canceled his Spotify subscription to save money, which meant he was always at the mercy of the radio gods, but sometimes the DJ powers that be threw him a bone.
Half an hour later, he arrived in Beverly Hills—the land of the rich, famous, and obscenely wealthy. Multimillion-dollar mansions, expensive cars, and tall, skinny palm trees flashed by as Nate maneuvered his old Honda Civic through the perfectly manicured streets. He loved his car, but he’d never been more conscious of how out of place it looked amongst all the Ferraris and Lamborghinis.
Still, nothing prepared him for the sight of Kris’s house. He’d known she was rich butholy shit.
Nate passed through the security gates, parked in the circular driveway, and stared at the enormous modern structure looming before him. It was all glass, gray stone, and white concrete, and it looked less like a home and more like a hotel. Two ultra-wide flights of stone stairs flanked the mansion, leading to the back of the property. The first level, nestled between the stairs, was a white marble rectangle framing a wall of windows and a set of intimidating double doors that looked like they could withstand a nuclear blast and wouldn’t be out of place in a spy movie. The upper levels were less neat—there were so many layers of roofs, jutting angles, and outdoor staircases he couldn’t discern how many floors the house had.
Nate’s phone buzzed with a new text as he tried to figure out whether that was an infinity pool on the second (third?) floor terrace.
Kris: Stop dawdling in your car. Hondas are not that nice, and you have a job to do.
His head snapped up. He scanned the house for a sign of her in the windows, but he couldn’t see shit through all that tinted glass.
His thumbs flew over his keyboard.
Nate: Is that any way to speak to your boyfriend?
He sent the message flying through cyberspace with a smirk. Kris’s plan to ensure Gloria’s interest in him was devious and all too fitting for Hollywood. A role within a role. Very meta, and he was going to enjoy the hell out of it.
Kris’s reply came just as swiftly.
Kris: If you’re not out of the car in thirty seconds, I will force you to wear salmon shorts and Sperrys on our next “date,” BOYFRIEND.
Ten seconds later, Nate was out of the car and ringing the doorbell.
He’d expected a maid or butler to open the door—this seemed like the type of joint that would have a butler—so when he found himself face-to-face with Kris herself, he chalked his speechlessness up to surprise.
Except he was more surprised by her appearance than he was by her greeting him.
Instead of designer clothes and heels, Kris wore a soft-looking white T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of tiny green shorts that bared miles of smooth, tanned leg. She had no makeup on—or if she did, Nate couldn’t tell—and she’d twisted her hair into a loose, messy bun that begged him to unravel it and run his fingers through those thick, luxurious locks.
No longer an untouchable ice princess, but a girl. A ridiculously touchable, beautiful one.
Kris crossed her arms over her chest. “My eyes are up here.”
It was only then that he realized he’d been laser-focused on the lacy bra strap her shirt revealed.
Get it together.
He lifted his gaze and relaxed into his confident playboy persona the way he slipped on his favorite T-shirt. Smooth, comfortable, and so easy it was like breathing.