Never surrender to an arrogant playboy again

Viola

Just imagine that: you got a little drunk from champagne at a fancy party. Then you accidentally stumbled back to what you thought was your hotel room. Next, you accidentally pushed open the unlocked door, and ended up hiding under your old childhood crush's bed like a creepy stalker. Yep, the same guy who shot you down hard years ago.

What were the odds of all this happening at once?

For almost everyone? The probability is roughly zero.

For me? One hundred percent.

Which is exactly why I was currently wedged under the bed in a penthouse suite. And I couldn't even blame anyone but myself.

I should have turned around and left the second I saw Bryce Mulholland's suitcase by the door. Maybe I was just too stunned. That bag was a birthday gift from me, and he was still using it, after all these years. He said this suitcase with a little teddy bear pattern was too childish and he would never use such a silly thing, though.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

My champagne-soaked brain made the worst possible call and ordered me to hide under the bed.

God, I was so stupid.

Every time Bryce Mulholland showed up, I turned into an idiot. And I was pretty sure, totally sure, that I didn't even like him anymore.

Ugh, how did I ever fall for such an arrogant jerk?

The door opened from the outside. I held my breath as heavy footsteps padded into the room. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. That sigh made my heart skip a beat.

I was way too nervous. I heard him take off his shoes. From my extremely limited view under the bed, all I could see was his lower half. He walked toward the bed and stopped right beside it. Bare feet.

Then he unbuttoned his zipper. A second later, a pair of faded blue jeans dropped to the floor, pooling around his bare ankles.

I didn't want to look. I really, truly told myself to close my eyes. But I couldn't help it. My gaze crawled up from his bare arches to his ankles, and then to his calves.

Holy Mother of God.

His calves were smoking hot. They were strong, powerful, and utterly breathtaking. Of course they were. These were the legs of a five-time Formula One World Champion.

Stop it, I scolded myself. You are literally a hostage under his bed. This is not the time to admire his body.

But he was way too attractive. He was a fatal seduction to every woman.

He took off his shirt, and as the shirt hit the ground, something small and shiny slipped out of the pocket.

A condom.

SIZE EXTRA LARGE.

I felt all the blood rushed instantly to my cheeks, burning so hot. I was surprised the carpet beneath my face didn't catch fire.

Of course he carried those around in his pocket. Of course he did. He was the most charming and ridiculously wealthy athlete on the planet. According to the media, he had admirers in every single city the Grand Prix visited, from Monaco to Singapore, from Shanghai to Vegas. Women threw themselves at him, and there were rumors that he only dated supermodels that women with legs up to their armpits.

He got used to being adored by everyone from his childhood. Just like I got used to being invisible.

His family was loaded, and he'd been the center of attention since he was a kid. He was effortlessly arrogant. Wherever he went, women swarmed him. His whole existence was basically a personal attack on ordinary people like me.

The biggest challenge he had ever had in his life was probably getting confessed by a plain and chubby girl.

And yeah. That stupid girl was me.

Suddenly, I saw his hand reach down into my vision. I watched his fingertips move toward the condom.

My heart completely stopped. My blood froze in my veins.

Please don't crouch down. I prayed to any god that would listen to me.

Please, please, please do not bend your knees. If you bent your knees, you would look under this bed, and you would see me, and I would literally have to fake a heart attack and die to escape the humiliation.

For a second, his fingertips hovered over the carpet. Then, seemingly changing his mind, he straightened back up, leaving the condom alone.

I let out a relieved breath.

However, things didn't exactly get better.

Oh my god, he was still undressing. Then his underwear came down. He was completely naked.

In that moment, I was basically a cavewoman running on pure instinct. I couldn't control my brain. It kept wondering: if those calves looked like that, what did his abs and chest look like? All sculpted and perfect.

On top of that, he had that flawless face. Dark brown hair. Gray-blue eyes. As long as he kept his mouth shut and didn't say anything mean, he was the most perfect man on earth.

As he turned back toward me, my eyes betrayed me once again.

I caught a fleeting and heart-stopping glimpse of his body.

He started walking toward the bathroom, and the farther away he got, the more of him I could see.

His upper thighs, the tense, powerful muscles of his legs leading up to...

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Okay, I thought. The second he got in the shower and turned the water on, I could crawl out and rush to the door. I would just be a ghost. He'd never know I was here.

But right before he crossed the threshold of the bathroom, he stopped.

I heard a phone beep. He had picked up the phone.

"Hey," his deep and beautiful voice echoed in the room. Even after all these years, that voice sent a shiver straight down my spine. It was smooth, arrogant, and entirely too magnetic.

"Anne," he said.

I twisted my face. Anne. Of course. Probably some gorgeous and statuesque blonde waiting in the hotel bar.

"Are you coming over later?" he asked into the phone, in that casual and lazy tone. "Alright. I'm going to take a shower first. Just come for me later."

He hung up the phone.

All those fantasies about his body vanished in an instant. My pounding heart felt like it had just been slashed open by his words.

It hurt.

He was expecting company. He was literally about to hook up with someone in this room. I stared at the extra-large condom on the floor. It was a ticking time bomb, reminding me to get out now, or I'd be a pathetic little peeping Tom, forced to spy on a five-time F1 World Champion's wild night life.

But underneath the heartache, there was something else. Something I didn't want to admit.

Jealousy.

No, no, no. Viola Hayes, you shouldn't care who he slept with. You just needed to leave.

I crawled out from under the bed, ready to make my escape while he showered.

But the second I stood up and looked toward the bathroom, I froze.

The bathroom door was wide open.

He hadn't shut it, just like he hadn't shut the door of the room. Who the hell takes a shower in a hotel room and leaves the door wide open?

Men. Arrogant, overconfident, careless men, that's who.

I scrambled right back under the bed, tail between my legs. I was completely trapped. Stuck under the bed of the man who had crushed my teenage heart, listening to the water run over his undeniably perfect, naked body, while waiting for his supermodel hookup to arrive.

God, you definitely had a sick sense of humor.

Viola

The shower was so loud and it should have drowned out my heartbeat. Instead, it just made the beat sound louder.

I lay frozen under the bed, cheek against the carpet, my brain a total mess of panic and claustrophobia and a very unwelcome wave of nostalgia.

Through the frosted shower glass which I could still see, steam rolled out into the room like fog. And in the middle of that steam, his silhouette moved.

He lifted his arms, rolling his shoulders under the water. Even blurred out by the condensation, the guy was huge. Strong. I closed my eyes again, and I could feel heat creeping up my neck.

Don't think about his body, I told myself. Think about what a jerk he used to be. Think about how he humiliated you and crushed your heart. Think about how much you hated him.

And I did hate him. At least, I'd been trying to for ten years.

My brain dragged me back to a time I'd spent years trying to bury.

Before he was the untouchable king of racing, before he was a billionaire playboy dating supermodels, he was just Bryce. The boy next door. My older brother's best friend. And my total dream guy as well as my nightmare.

As for me, I was Viola. Plain Viola. If there was a prize for being aggressively average, I'd have won it with any doubt. I was the wallflower, not the movie kind with a secret genius hidden underneath. Just plain. Very chunky, always hiding myself in oversized outfits and thick glasses with defident manners. I believed so well that half my graduating class probably thought I transferred in senior year.

Bryce was the sun, and I was a sad little rock stuck in his orbit.

He was born to be the brightest star, and I was just someone sitting in the back row.

He'd always been meticulous about everything: his karting gear, his clothes, all of those. And he had this natural arrogance. He knew he was better than everyone, and he made sure nobody forgot it.

He teased me constantly and called me "Cream Puff", because I was soft and round and turned bright pink every time he looked at me.

I convinced myself his teasing meant he liked me. That behind the smirk and the sharp tongue, he actually saw me.

So, high on rom-coms and teenage delusion, I decided to shoot my shot at senior year.

I wasn't invited, obviously. I snuck into the country club wearing a puffy pink dress that looked like a tragic and cheap cupcake, just to find him. I cornered him in the conservatory, away from the music and the pretty people.

My hands shook as I smoothed down the skirt.

"Bryce," I stammered. My voice was trembling so hard but I tried to sound cold and confident, which I was not very good at.

"I... I really like you. Actually, I love you. Shall I ask you to dance?"

He stared at me for a long and awful moment. Those piercing blue eyes swept over me. My frizzy hair. My red face. My childish dress.

Then he laughed.

I couldn't forget his amused and pitiful expression. It seemed like what I just said had wounded his pride.

"Dance with you, Cream Puff?" he said, smirking. "I think I'll pass. You're a little uncoordinated. I'd rather not have my feet crushed tonight. I need them for racing."

It struck me like a bomb, totally shattering my pride, even though I was certain he wouldn't even notice I had any pride at all.

Tears stung my eyes instantly, but the tiny scrap of pride I had left kicked in.

"You're a rude, arrogant jerk." I choked out.

Then, running on pure mortification, I lifted my sensible block heel and stomped down on his foot as hard as I could.

He yelled and stumbled back, and I ran. I ran out of that shithole and left the pieces of my stupid teenage heart all over the floor.

He could have rejected me in a more gentle and polite way. I mean, even if you didn't like someone, you shouldn't hurt their heart and their dignity.

That night changed everything. The humiliation burned the Cream Puff right out of me. I stopped hiding. I started working out. I buried myself in university, joined the debate team, forced people to see me. I turned the pain he gave me into fuel.

Ten years later, I wasn't the chubby wallflower anymore. I was a prime-time TV host for a major sports network. I was sharp, fit, and fully in control. I wore stilettos and suits that said don't mess with me. I interviewed CEOs, politicians, celebrities and so on.

Over the past ten years, there were many men confessing their feelings to me, and I rejected some of them. But I was never as arrogant as him and never blind to how others felt.

I knew it took courage , which was the most precious thing in the world, to confess one's love.

You can say no, but you have to show them your respect.

Byrce, obviously, didn't know what respect meant.

I swore I would never be this wrecked in front of him again.

I'd imagined our reunion a hundred times over. We encountered each other at work. He'd see how much I'd changed, and I'd brush him off without a second glance.

Yet here I was, still in a mess.

The shower shut off, dragging me back to the nightmare of right now.

Just stay in the bathroom, I begged silently. Dry your hair. Brush your teeth. Do whatever annoyingly hot men do in front of mirrors.

But his footsteps got closer. He was coming back into the bedroom.

I couldn't help it. My eyes drifted open.

He stopped right in front of the bed.

Nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water dripping down his legst, running over his ankles and feet, disappearing in the carpet.

He was so gorgeous. The kind that made it hard to breathe.

I reminded myself of his laugh. He was a pretty shell with a cold arrogant center. He was not worth the fluttering in my chest.

He tossed another towel onto a chair, and I gussed he just used it to rub his hair. Then he went completely still.

The silence stretched on and on.

I stayed frozen, wishing hard for invisibility.

Then, slowly, his voice cut through the quiet.

"You know," he said with his casual tone, with a dangerous little amusement under it. "If you wanted to admire the game, Cream Puff, you could've just asked me for a front row seat."

My blood turned out to be as cold as ice.

How did he know it was me hiding under the bed? Did he have some kind of super power?

My brain totally went blank.

"You can come out now," he added, taking one slow step toward the bed. "Unless you're planning to spend the night down there. I should probably charge you rent."

Nowhere to hide. Game over. Done. Spectacularly, humiliatingly done.

I was still hiding under the bed, frozen stiff with embarrassment and shame. Ugh, why can't I be a pangolin? Then I could dig a hole and bolt in instantly.

He knelt down, and our eyes locked. Those blue eyes were full of teasing. Oh god, his face. It was still perfect, even sharper with newfound confidence and swagger, and it made me burn with humiliation.

He held out a hand toward me and said, "What? Planning to spend the night under my bed?"

I took a deep, shaky breath and put my hands on the carpet. I was completely humiliated, but ten years of building myself up wasn't just going to vanish. If I was going down, I was going down swinging.

I pushed his hand away and crawled out from under the bed. I hoped playing it cool could rescue the dignity I had left.

I flipped my hair over my shoulder, lifted my chin, and made myself look as cold as I could be.

Viola

Standing right in front of him, I finally locked eyes with Bryce.

For a second, time completely stopped.

My brain, normally sharp and quick-thinking during live television broadcasts, was now running as sluggishly as a broken and outdated computer.

Ugh, come on brain, work! Don't just zone out like this!

And Bryce stood right before me, wrapped only in a towel, blazing bright as a thousand suns, painfully perfect.

This natural masterpiece stood mere inches away from me.

He'd grown even more handsome. I hadn't seen him in person all these years, only photos and clips from media coverage. In the flesh, he was infinitely more captivating than anything captured on camera.

His broad shoulders and chest were fully exposed to me. Those V-lines trailed down his body, disappearing beneath the towel tied around his hips. His hair was damp, water droplets dripping from it. Under the hotel's bright lights, the beads of water glistened on his skin, as if he himself was glowing.

There was a scar on his collarbone. I remembered this scar-from a karting crash during his childhood training. Far from marring his body, the mark was like the broken arms of the Venus de Milo, making him even more one-of-a-kind.

God, fresh out of the shower, he looked like a fallen angel who had just stepped out of a tempest. He was stunning enough to steal my breath.

I thought, the only reason this arrogant, sharp-tongued man hasn't gotten himself beaten to a pulp is this flawless appearance.

The world is shallow like that, so easily fooled by beauties.

I had to admit I was just as shallow. When I wasn't face-to-face with him, hating him came effortlessly. But standing here before him, all I felt was raw physical attraction.

Bryce's gaze slowly dragged over me. He took his time, his eyes dropping from my flushed face, trailing over my outfit, lingering for a second on the high heels I wore, before rising back up to meet my eyes.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Well, I have to admit, Cream Puff... I'm incredibly glad to see you are slender enough to actually fit under the bed. Or extracting you out would be a nightmare for me."

The spell shattered instantly.

He hadn't changed. He hadn't changed one single bit. Why did I ever hold the hope he'd be even a little bit nicer?

He was still the same arrogant and condescending jerk who thought the world revolved around his axis. Sure, he had become more charming. Sure, he had gone on to conquer the globe, securing five Formula One World Championships, retiring at the peak of his career to become a living legend. The entire world worshipped the ground he walked on. Men wanted to be him. Women threw themselves at his feet.

But stripped of his appearance, the fame and the wealth, he was still just Bryce. The boy who had laughed at me.

"And I see your ego has only inflated with your bank account. Do you need to buy two airplane seats whenever you fly? One for your body, and one for your overblown ego?" I fired back.

Bryce let out a laugh, a sound that was entirely too appealing. He leaned back and crossed his muscular arms over his bare chest. The movement caused his biceps to flex, and I aggressively forced my gaze to remain locked on his face.

No peeking at his naked body. Nope. Not allowed. Bad eyes.

"You've developed a bite, Viola. I like it. By the way, you look perfect in this suit than in a pink taffeta." He said.

I flinched. Pink taffeta. He remembered the dress. Of course he did. He probably kept the memory stored in a file labeled hilarious moments. Why does he have to remember every embarrassing thing about teenage me? That's so unfair.

"What I wear is none of your business!" I snapped, taking a defensive step back.

"By the way, I wasn't hiding under your bed because I wanted to be there. I was at the broadcasting gala downstairs. I had too many glasses of champagne. I got off on the wrong floor, and your door was ajar."

"My door was ajar." he repeated slowly, tasting the words. He took a predatory step toward me.

"Yes. I walked in, realized it wasn't my room, and then I heard you coming. I panicked. And then I hid under the bed. End of story."I lifted my chin.

"You panicked." he mused, taking another step.

The scent of Bryce wrapped around me. Ugh, even his smell is unfairly good.

Focus, Viola!

"So, the fearless television host, the woman I watched tear apart the Ferrari team principal on live TV last month, gets a little startled and decides her best tactical move is to dive under the bed of a naked man?" He looked at me in a deliberately confused look.

He was so mean!

"I didn't know you were naked when I went under there! And you weren't naked when you walked in! You... you undressed in front of me!" I shouted at him.

"Ah." The smirk disappeared, transforming into a wicked grin. "So you were watching."

"I was trapped! What was I supposed to do? Cough and ask you to hand me a towel to cover my eyes?" I cried out, my hands balling into fists.

"You could have said hello." He took another step.

I took a step back.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Nothing?" Another step forward.

He was toxic. He was rude. He was arrogant. He broke hearts for a living. Do not fall for this. He was not worth a single second of your affection. Brain, thank you for the reminder, but my body was refusing to listen to my btain.

My body completely ignored my brain. My legs hit the edge of the bed and I fell on the bed. Bryce reached out and placed both of his large hands on the mattress, one on either side of my hips, pinning me against the bed.

I was trapped. Again. No no no, not again!

He leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from mine. His gaze dropped to my mouth, his eyes darkening, the teasing glint replaced by something much heavier, much more dangerous.

"You've changed, Cream Puff. You're... very different."he murmured.

"Don't call me that." I breathed, my voice betraying me by coming out breathless and weak.

"Why not?" He leaned in closer. The tip of his nose almost brushed mine. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.

"It used to make you blush."

"I don't blush anymore." I lied, knowing full well my face was currently the color of a ripe tomato. I was so bad at lying. He could definitely see how red I was.

"No? You look exactly like you did ten years ago just before you told me you loved me." Bryce smirked.

I wanted to push him away. I wanted to slap that beautiful but arrogant face.

But I couldn't move. My hands, completely of their own thoughts, came up to rest against his bare chest. His skin was hot, his muscles hard as stone beneath my palms. I felt the heavy rhythm of his heartbeat against my fingertips. It was racing. Just like mine. Wait. Is his heart racing too?

Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up.

"I hate you." I whispered.

"I know." His gaze dropping to my lips again. He leaned in, closing the final inch of space between us. His eyelashes fluttered shut.

He was going to kiss me. I bet.

Knock knock.

Bryce froze. He let out a low frustrated sigh.

"Bryce?" A voice called from the hallway. "It's Anne. Open up."

The supermodel. The hookup. I didn't know who Anne was, but reality came crashing down on me.

How could he flirt with me like this while waiting for his hookup?

What an asshole. A playboy, a man you could never trust, a total scumbag.

All I needed to do is to escape now.

I shoved against his chest with all my might.

Taken by surprise, Bryce stumbled backward.

I scrambled sideways, gasping for air as if I had been underwater for the last ten minutes.

"I hated you!" I shouted, my voice trembling, and I rushed out of the room.