Indignation burns in my chest. “Oh really? You think I’m a bad influence?”

“Clearly.”

“Why is it you can say that so confidently to me, but last night at dinner, you were quiet as a mouse?”

“We’ve gone over this before—I’m shy.”

“I can’t believe that. When it’s just you and me, you’re the exact opposite.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “So take it as a compliment and move on. Don’t you have someone else you can go bother?”

Ignoring her, I ask, “What book is that?”

“Ten Ways to Deal with Difficult People.”

“You’re joking.”

She rolls her eyes and lifts the book as her reply: No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.

A favorite of mine.

“Have you read The Road?”

She gives me a pointed look as if to say, Are you really asking me that?

I take a seat on the lounge chair beside her and unfold my French newspaper. I’m making a point. She doesn’t need to worry; I can mind my business. Never mind that we’re almost elbow to elbow with the lounge chairs pushed so closely together. I can smell her shampoo on the gentle breeze. I’m attuned to her every subtle shift.

“Did you really have to sit right beside me like this? There are plenty of lounge chairs over there. And you know what?” She twists around and shields her eyes from the sun as if to study something. “I think I even see some beautiful women sunbathing by the pool. Oh, gosh, look at that—they need someone to help them apply sunblock. If only there were a person for the job…”

“I’m sure they’ll manage,” I say, wetting my thumb so I can easily flip through to the économie section of the newspaper.

She feigns a worried gasp. “Oh dear, now one of them has completely lost her bikini top. She’s looking everywhere for it. She really needs help.”

My only reply is the flutter of my newspaper as I turn to another page.

She sighs in defeat and turns back toward the lake. At first, she sits there with her book turned upside down on her lap. She isn’t quite ready to throw in the towel.

“To be clear, I’m not a bad influence,” I tell her, my focus still on my paper. “I didn’t drag you out into the garden last night like some deviant. You found me.”

She huffs annoyedly. “Yes, sure. I stumbled upon you innocently enough, but when everyone saw us run out of the gardens together, they all assumed the same thing.”

“Which was what exactly?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

My devilish grin is impossible to suppress. “I’d like to hear you say it.”

She closes her book and leans toward me. “You’re not good for a lady’s reputation. For my reputation.”

“Why?”

“Because of who you are…a billionaire playboy with nothing to lose. I’d rather not look like I’m this week’s flavor.”

“I could take offense to that.”

“But you won’t,” she responds dryly.