There are at least ten empty bottles of champagne around the tub. The women probably helped, but I guarantee he drank most of it. He drinks like a very, very large and thirsty fish. Either his liver is about to explode or it’s made of titanium.
I grab a robe from the closet and hold it out, my face averted. “Get out of the water.”
“Why? Plenty of room for you too.”
“No! She’s so fat!” one of the women whines.
He gives her the searchlight-intensity smile. “I like ’em soft and curvy.”
“C’mon Ryder. Let’s go.” When he doesn’t move, I grit my teeth. The women are pissing me off; they’re clinging to him like freaking octopuses, running their hands along his body and rubbing their breasts all over him. He’s practically pinned in the tub by silicon. “You know you have to go to your cousin’s wedding tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner.” I hate the way I sound, like a curfew enforcer. “You can’t miss it. Your mother’s going to be there.”
Even drunk, the mention of his mother makes his face scrunch. “Jus’ had to ruin the moment.” He pushes to his feet, then almost loses his balance.
I catch him before he falls and breaks his face. It would serve him right, but it’s my job to keep him safe, among other things.
He’s extremely heavy. And extra warm from the hot water.
“You know you’re not supposed to drink and get in a hot tub, right?” I mutter under my breath as I labor to keep him upright.
“Stop nagging.”
I resolutely keep my eyes on his face, but I can feel the every hard line and plane of his body flush against mine even through my clothes, which are currently getting wet and plastering themselves to my skin. My mouth dries. I’ve been working for him for four years, but I’ve never had him against me like this before. And no matter how annoyed I am with him, I would have to be dead to not feel anything when the Sexiest Man Alive—multiple-time winner—is hanging onto me…even if he is currently drunk.
The women from the tub reach out and try to pull him back. I glare at them, but they are either too drunk or too intent on him to pay any attention. Maintaining balance suddenly becomes a lot more difficult.
“Hey!” I yell.
Then two of them actually pull me into the tub, apparently deciding that may be the easiest way to free Ryder. I crash head-first into the water. The roaring of the jets is deafening.
I try to get up, but a hand pushes my head down. I claw at the person, but it’s no use.
Suddenly the hand vanishes, and I sit up, gulping in air. I rub my face to get the water out of my eyes. Ryder is perched on the side of the tub, giving the women a dark smoldering glare. “No rough play, I said,” he mutters, his words slurred. He wags a finger at them like naughty children, then bursts out laughing, almost losing his balance again from some hilarity only he can appreciate.
For god’s sake. If he slips this time, he’s on his own.
One of my pumps is floating in the sudsy water. I grab it and get out before the psychos in the tub think of any other crazy thing. My shoes are ruined, but I’ll worry about that later. First things first.
I forcibly drag Ryder away while the women hurl insults, most of them having to do with me being greedy and fat. I let their invective roll over me. Not like it’s the first time, and I just don’t have the time to deal with them in addition to Ryder right now. My goal is to take him home without the pap getting a shot for the scandal rags.
I consider leaving him on the bed, but there are women there too. Security apparently hasn’t gotten rid of all of them yet; I can still hear angry screeches in the living room. Only one armchair is empty, so I deposit him in it. “Don’t move!”
He waves me away. Probably too drunk to move. His complexion’s slightly pale and sallow with a tinge of green. Alcohol’s dulled his eyes, and his wet hair is sticking out at odd angles.
Anyone else, and the sight would be pathetic. But Ryder somehow still manages to look hot. I swear his mother sacrificed an entire African country of goats when he was born.
I, of course, look like some kind of waterlogged rodent. Ugh. The carpet’s soaked beneath my feet. I gaze up at the ceiling for patience.
I march back into the bathroom, ignore the group of inebriated tub strumpets, grab a couple of fluffy white towels, march back out and toss one his way. “Dry off and get dressed. You’re going home.” I run a towel all over myself, but it’s no use. I need a new set of clothes, but I’m not going to get it right now.
“I have a late checkout. Two p.m.,” Ryder says.
“You are not staying here until two p.m.”