He turns and points to the small bungalow on the bluff above us.
“That’s Ronan’s house?”
“Yes. It’s how I know about this place, and that it’s private.”
“As in your costar Ronan Masters? We’re staying at his house?”
Chase nods. I can see his face tense in the moonlight.
“There’s only one bedroom?” I breathe out. Only one…bed?
I may write mysteries, not romance, but I’ve seen enough rom-coms to know how that could end.
I try to wipe the smile from my mouth. This is supposed to be a concerning situation. Even in the dim glow of moonlight and twinkle lights, I can tell that Chase doesn’t look happy. Not at all. He looks stressed and worried.
But I’m jubilant. I only have a short time left with Chase. This is like a gift from the gods. And you can’t deny a gift from the gods. It would be impolite. Blasphemous, even.
My guilty conscience says to tell Chase about the fire report. That he needs all the information. That it’s not right keeping it from him. But if he knows, he might not think we need to stay in the bungalow for the night. The bungalow that only has one bedroom. Quite possibly only one bed.
It’s just one night.
What’s the harm in keeping it secret for one more night?
I’ll tell him first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 31
Chase
We make our way up the path to the weathered cottage overlooking the beach. We walk in silence, hand in hand, except at the narrow portions where I follow her. She pulls down her dress self-consciously, and I want to tell her to stop hiding that luscious ass.
The cottage is small and quaint, completely hidden from the road, surrounded by craggy trees and rocks. Wind chimes greet us, and large shells line a handmade bench and a macramé hammock that looks like the perfect place to read a book. A row of surfboards gives the white-shingled cottage a surfer vibe. It’s not what anyone would imagine Ronan Masters’s house to look like. If not for the million-dollar view, the house could belong to an aging hippie or surfer.
“Pretty humble place for a movie star,” she says, taking it all in. “Though he does look like he surfs, with that long blond hair and all those golden muscles.” She gives a little sigh, as if imagining my costar’s attributes.
I just grunt. It’s obvious she approves of his muscles, and as much as I work out, I’ll never compete with Ronan in sheer size. He’s a giant, a Nordic god of an action star. His muscles have muscles.
I try to remember that I actually like Ronan. He’s a good friend, or as much of a friend as two insanely private coworkers can be. But I don’t like that smile Olivia has when she talks about him.
I reach into a potted plant and come up with the key.
Olivia tilts her head. “This is where you’re taking me to be safe?”
“No one knows about this cottage. It’s in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors. Ronan’s owned it for years, and no paparazzi have found him here. Despite its looks, it also has a high-tech alarm system.”
“Clearly,” she says. “That key in the planter must fool all the crooks.”
I put the key in the lock, and the door falls open. “The alarm system isn’t for when the cottage is empty. It’s for when Ronan is here. I’ll alarm it once we’re locked in. And the guards will be watching the house and grounds the entire time we’re here.”
I unlock the door, and she steps into the cozy room. The outside may show its humble origins, but the inside is meticulously renovated, with fresh paint, gleaming appliances, and simple yet expensive-looking furnishings in varying shades of white and beige.
I throw the key onto a sideboard that features more shells.
Olivia turns to me, hugging herself.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“A little,” she admits shyly. Her dress is soaked through.
I pull off my mostly dry sweater and hand it to her. “Here. Put this on. But take off your wet clothes first.” I look down. “All your wet clothes,” I say meaningfully. “The bathroom is through there.” I point to a door off the living room.
She nods, staring at my chest in the slightly damp T-shirt I’d worn under my sweater.
“While you change, I’ll get you something to drink,” I continue, needing something to occupy my hands before I reach for her.
I find a bottle of chilled white wine in the fridge and wineglasses on a low bar. I try not to think of her stripping off her wet dress, bra, and underwear. When I return to the living room, she’s opened the sliding door and is looking comfortable, curled up on a large, pillow-strewn daybed on the porch facing the jagged cliffs and expansive ocean. The wind is cool, and the only sound is the waves crashing in the dark depths below.