“Just kidding. But seriously, sitting in the hot tub under the cool night sky doesn’t appeal to you?”
Trying to dodge the bullet, I say, “A hot tub sounds amazing, to be honest. But I’m not going skinny-dipping with you, and I obviously didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“I have plenty of spare swimsuits in the pool house.” I give him a skeptical look. “Seriously, both men’s and women’s. I have lots of pool parties, and suits are often left behind. I just have them washed and store them out there in case someone needs one. There are dozens of them, all types and sizes.”
I stare at this gorgeous man and his equally gorgeous smile. It would definitely be nice to see him without a shirt on. But more importantly, how can I use this to my advantage?
“I’ll do it on one condition,” I say. He grins and waits for me to continue. “I’ll get in the hot tub with you – neither of us naked, of course – but you have to answer a half dozen questions honestly . No bullshit answers. Give me something I can actually use.”
He looks into my eyes. I’ve been around enough to know that look. Manning has plans to try to take this further. He’ll get me in a bathing suit and liquor me up, let the LA night work its magic on me, then the next thing you know I’ll be one of his conquests. My own plan, though, is to get what I need for the interview, then bail out before anything else happens.
“It’s a deal,” Drake says. “Six questions. Better make them good.” He hands me my tumbler and picks up his own. We clink glasses and I finish mine in a single gulp. If I’m going to wear a bathing suit in front of this man, I need liquid courage.
As he walks me past the eerily glowing pool, surrounded by a dozen or so huge palm trees, it occurs to me that sitting with Drake Manning in a hot tub is the kind of work that millions of women would love to be doing. The night really is beautiful – there’s something special about the Hollywood Hills in spring, when the nights are still cool. Steam rises from the huge nearby Jacuzzi. A cluster of outdoor furniture sits near the pool house, and Manning says I can change in there, then takes a seat and pours himself another bourbon. That’s right, Drake, I think, loosen up just a bit more.
His pool house is bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had and includes a full bath. There’s a dresser, and I open a drawer to find the promised bathing suits. One by one I remove them and look them over. It takes a while, but I find one in my size. It’s a bikini, but it’s not too skimpy. I hold the top against myself and look in the mirror. This should do.
When I remove my clothes, though, something happens. I look at my naked body in the mirror and start thinking that it’s really not bad at all. Sure, it’s not perfect, but I do watch my weight and I like to think that I’m sexy in my own way. Getting naked with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors wouldn’t exactly be a terrible thing.
The wine and bourbon are doing their thing, but maybe too much so; I’m feeling braver than I should. When my eyes land on a navy blue silk scarf hanging next to the dresser, a plan hatches in my fevered brain. What if I were to walk out naked and blindfolded, like Manning said? Display my courage and my sense of humor, let him know I’m not a typical stuffy journalist. Then we can get in the Jacuzzi together, both naked like he wants – and even more importantly, both totally exposed. If I can’t get him to open up at that point, then there’s no hope. His idea of a naked interview might actually work in my favor.
“Everything okay in there, Allie?”
I jump and cover myself, then laugh at my foolishness. Maybe I’m not as brave as I think.
It’s time to decide: Can I really do this? Can I walk out there in front of Drake Manning with absolutely no clothing on? The bourbon tells me I can, and tricks me by convincing me this is for the sake of work. I look at my naked
Trying to dodge the bullet, I say, “A hot tub sounds amazing, to be honest. But I’m not going skinny-dipping with you, and I obviously didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“I have plenty of spare swimsuits in the pool house.” I give him a skeptical look. “Seriously, both men’s and women’s. I have lots of pool parties, and suits are often left behind. I just have them washed and store them out there in case someone needs one. There are dozens of them, all types and sizes.”
I stare at this gorgeous man and his equally gorgeous smile. It would definitely be nice to see him without a shirt on. But more importantly, how can I use this to my advantage?
“I’ll do it on one condition,” I say. He grins and waits for me to continue. “I’ll get in the hot tub with you – neither of us naked, of course – but you have to answer a half dozen questions honestly . No bullshit answers. Give me something I can actually use.”
He looks into my eyes. I’ve been around enough to know that look. Manning has plans to try to take this further. He’ll get me in a bathing suit and liquor me up, let the LA night work its magic on me, then the next thing you know I’ll be one of his conquests. My own plan, though, is to get what I need for the interview, then bail out before anything else happens.
“It’s a deal,” Drake says. “Six questions. Better make them good.” He hands me my tumbler and picks up his own. We clink glasses and I finish mine in a single gulp. If I’m going to wear a bathing suit in front of this man, I need liquid courage.
As he walks me past the eerily glowing pool, surrounded by a dozen or so huge palm trees, it occurs to me that sitting with Drake Manning in a hot tub is the kind of work that millions of women would love to be doing. The night really is beautiful – there’s something special about the Hollywood Hills in spring, when the nights are still cool. Steam rises from the huge nearby Jacuzzi. A cluster of outdoor furniture sits near the pool house, and Manning says I can change in there, then takes a seat and pours himself another bourbon. That’s right, Drake, I think, loosen up just a bit more.
His pool house is bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had and includes a full bath. There’s a dresser, and I open a drawer to find the promised bathing suits. One by one I remove them and look them over. It takes a while, but I find one in my size. It’s a bikini, but it’s not too skimpy. I hold the top against myself and look in the mirror. This should do.
When I remove my clothes, though, something happens. I look at my naked body in the mirror and start thinking that it’s really not bad at all. Sure, it’s not perfect, but I do watch my weight and I like to think that I’m sexy in my own way. Getting naked with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors wouldn’t exactly be a terrible thing.
The wine and bourbon are doing their thing, but maybe too much so; I’m feeling braver than I should. When my eyes land on a navy blue silk scarf hanging next to the dresser, a plan hatches in my fevered brain. What if I were to walk out naked and blindfolded, like Manning said? Display my courage and my sense of humor, let him know I’m not a typical stuffy journalist. Then we can get in the Jacuzzi together, both naked like he wants – and even more importantly, both totally exposed. If I can’t get him to open up at that point, then there’s no hope. His idea of a naked interview might actually work in my favor.
“Everything okay in there, Allie?”
I jump and cover myself, then laugh at my foolishness. Maybe I’m not as brave as I think.
It’s time to decide: Can I really do this? Can I walk out there in front of Drake Manning with absolutely no clothing on? The bourbon tells me I can, and tricks me by convincing me this is for the sake of work. I look at my naked
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