I didn’t want to care what he thought I spent my spare time doing, but I found myself hesitating before getting inside the car to text him back. Thanks for the heads up, smartass. If my body wasn’t so tired from your “basics” I’d probably have gotten up on time.
I slid the phone back into my pocket. The look on my face must have said it all because when I dropped down next to Miller, he cocked a dark eyebrow and scratched the back of his buzz cut. “You look like you just told someone off,” he said, as he began to drive.
“Oh, I did.”
“Let me guess, Billabong?” he asked, chuckling. When I shot him a look, he cringed and said in a serious tone, “Sorry, I keep forgetting that you decide whether I have a job or not. You’re just not what I . . .”
“Expected?” I asked. My phone buzzed against my thigh again, and I felt my heart jump.
“You can say that,” Miller said.
“I’m actually quite charming,” I said. Then, I gave him a grin that was forced but sincere. “And you don’t have to worry about getting fired. As long as you don’t try to sell my dirty panties to Sleaze Police, we’re good.”
“Gross.”
“It’s happened before,” I said as I fished my phone out. It was still buzzing from incoming text messages. “You wouldn’t believe what some of these dickwads will pay for.” I didn’t add that the panty incident had happened to Jessica and that she’d been sleeping with the bodyguard who did the deed.
I was more interested in Cooper’s newest responses.
9:15 a.m.: So you’re saying you spent the night in bed with sore muscles, thinking about me?
9:16 a.m.: I’ve got to say Wills, I’m pretty turned on.
I rolled my eyes, ready to let him have it, but then another text came in. This one was from a familiar, old contact whose photo popped up when I clicked on the message. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, a giant grin, and a shot glass lifted up high. I still remembered bits and pieces of the night I took this picture of Jessica.
Speak of the boozy devil.
9:18 a.m.: Where are you staying??? I was on vacation in Ibiza. I want to see you, bitch!!!
I began typing a response to her, barely listening when Miller said, “Hey, Willow . . . I was wondering if we could talk about days off.”
“The weekend,” I blurted, and I heard him shuffle around, probably to turn his head in my direction. “The weekend because I don’t need to go out. Seriously, if I ask to go out, stop me.”
Because my text to Jessica read, I wish we could hang out but I’m in Hawaii for a part! Sorry.
“What? With physical force?” Miller asked, snorting.
“I’m weak,” I said, adjusting my ringer to silent. That way she couldn’t tell me about what she’d done, and who she partied with, in Ibiza. That way I wouldn’t get jealous. That way I wouldn’t wish I’d been with her, getting so f**ked up the universe failed to exist for me.
“I don’t want to go back to rehab or jail or any of that. I’m not going to go back,” I whispered.
There should be other reasons why you don’t want to get screwed up, my conscience muttered to me.
I paid attention to the winding road ahead.
“Nobody wants you to either,” Miller said quietly. But I closed my eyes and saw the flashing lights and the headlines behind my eyelids. He was wrong, so I didn’t respond.
When he parked the car on Cooper’s curb, I hesitated before getting out. I pulled my hand away from the door handle and gazed back into Miller’s dark brown eyes. “What are you going to do when you’re off?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “Something part-time . . . to help with the expenses when I move.” Yesterday, during our all-day tour of Honolulu, he’d told me about his girlfriend. The assignment as my bodyguard would be his last before he moved to live with her on the East Coast.
My gaze slipped to the front of Cooper’s stucco house, and then back to Miller’s face. “Another security job?”
Miller opened his mouth to answer me, but then seemed to think better of it. His face wrinkled into a frown and he flicked the tip of his tongue over the tiny gap in his front teeth. “Willow, are you stalling?”
Yes. And I wasn’t about to admit aloud—or even to myself—the reason why. Letting my shoulders sag, I pinned on a smile that was probably more creepy and robotic than bright. “I’ll text you when Surfer Boy and me are done.”
A second after I stepped inside the empty shop area a couple minutes later, Eric padded in through the doors behind the surfboard counter. He had a half-eaten energy bar in one hand and a giant bottle of water in the other. “What if I said you’re stuck with me today?” he asked, hitching an eyebrow.
I pretended to be interested in a t-shirt for sale, though I could still easily see him out the corner of my eye. “What exactly are you going to teach me? And by the way, I met your girlfriend.”
He took a long gulp of water and then shrugged his shoulders. “Paige knows my flirting is harmless.” When I rolled my eyes, he added, “What can I say, I’m star-struck. What would you do if Brad Pitt walked into your house?”
I scrunched my face. “Not shit because he’s two years older than my dad.” Then a thought hit me, and I shifted an eyebrow up. “You’re not much of a bum if you’re up this early each morning.”
“It’s to see your beautiful, famous face. But really, not even I sleep past 9:30. I’ve got to polish those”—he pointed to three surfboards resting against the wall on the far side of the room—“and go to the grocer. I’m kind of your boyfriend’s bitch.”