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On our list, he’s added a few things he’d like to try. Role play is one. I guess playing his dirty secretary is something I’m going to have to fulfill for him.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“Well, I asked her first,” Oz interrupts.
Rhys frees me from his level stare to meet his father’s mock irritation. “I have more to offer.”
Oz huffs. “Like what?”
The asshole with the crooked grin replies smoothly, “Flexibility.”
Good Christ.
Oz, the poor man, looks momentarily resigned at the remark. “Unfortunately, the office hours are set...”
“I really don’t need flexibility,” I assure him quickly.
“Don’t you?” Rhys counters, cocking his head.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Nope.”
“That’s not the impression I got when we weretalkinglast night—”
“You heard wrong,” I cut in.
The asshole hums and settles back in his chair. “No. I remember you being very pro flexibility.”
He’d had my arms and legs tied wide across his bed. The straps were taut, giving me no movement as he took full control of my body in ways that make me shift in my seat.
Bastard notices and grins.
“I can talk to the other members about hours...” Oz hazards, seeming confused as he glances between us.
“It really isn’t a problem, Oz. Rhys is being a turd. The hours are fine.”
“But you know, speaking of flexible, how was the yoga retreat?” Mom pops in. “You barely said two words about it when you got back. Was it awful?”
“She was very tight lipped about it,” Rhys agrees. “Couldn’t get a thing out of her when I asked. Just kept making these sounds—”
“It was fine!” I snap, ready to pitch my glass at his head. “There’s really nothing to tell.”
“Nothing?” Mom grumbles. “You don’t even have a single picture. What kind of place was this?”
“Remote. No cell service so ... so I didn’t take pictures.” Mom and Oz aren’t tech savvy, but they know I’m lying. Terribly. The camera feature has nothing to do with Wi-Fi. “I forgot.”
“Well, what did you do all week?” Mom pushes, and I really should have seen the questions coming. I should have prepared better answers.
“Slept, mostly,” I confessed. “Did a little yoga. Exercised a bit. It was pretty isolated so not really much to do.”
I recognize my mistake the second Mom pauses with her drink poised at her lips. Her eyebrow arches with a very deliberate disbelief.
“You ... exercised?”
I should have stopped at slept. I’m not athletic. I barely passed gym class. Willingly admitting to working out is the equivalent of me confessing that I’m a world class athlete — laughable and highly unlikely.
“I mean, not overly a lot,” I babble stupidly.
“What kind of exercise?” Rhys pipes in, and my cheeks burn.
