Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"You saw it."

"Nope!"

The word popped out of me way too fast, way too cheerful—like I'd just won a raffle, not gotten caught ogling the glowing dragon tattoo on the back of Asia's most powerful billionaire.

Smooth, Kaira. Really smooth.

For an actress, it was possibly the worst line delivery of my life. If my director from last year's series were here, he'd probably throw a script at my head.

Travis Javierres didn't blink. He didn't need to. His silence was enough to tell me I'd just made a fool of myself. The kind of silence that stretched, heavy and sharp, until I felt like I was squirming under a spotlight.

"I didn't see anything," I added quickly, words tumbling out like loose marbles. "Not a tattoo. Not a dragon. Honestly, not even a back. You don't even have a back, as far as I'm concerned. Just... void. Air. Yep."

One of his eyebrows lifted, barely a millimeter, but it might as well have been a standing ovation compared to his otherwise unreadable expression.

And that's when I knew: I was in trouble.

"You saw it," he said again, slower this time. His voice was deep, steady, carrying the weight of inevitability.

I swallowed. My brain screamed: Deny, deny, deny! But my mouth, of course, had other plans.

"Fine. Maybe I saw something," I admitted, throwing my hands up in surrender. "But in my defense, you were practically moonlighting as a glow stick. Like, what was I supposed to do? Pretend I was blind?"

For a fraction of a second, I swore the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like... amusement, caught and quickly buried.

And it was worse. So much worse. Because the tiniest flicker of amusement on his face was enough to make my stomach flip like a gymnast on too much espresso.

Nope. Absolutely not. We were not doing this.

I crossed my arms, trying to look casual. "You know, most people put a Do Not Disturb sign on their hotel door when they want privacy. You? You go for the whole glowing dragon constellation across your back option. Very subtle. Ten out of ten for discretion."

He turned then, slowly, fully—and the sight made my breath catch again.

Not because he was shirtless (though, yes, the man looked like he'd been carved out of marble by an artist who'd gotten bored of perfection and just kept adding flourishes). No, it was his eyes.

Dark. Steady. Fixed on me like I was a puzzle he'd already half-solved.

"You shouldn't be here."

The words weren't harsh. Just factual. But they slid across my skin like ice water anyway.

My pride kicked in. "Wow. And here I thought rooftop pools were for guests. Silly me. Should I leave a note at the front desk next time? 'Dear Mr. Javierres, may I breathe the same air as you for five minutes? Sincerely, one very tired guest who just wanted to swim.'"

His gaze didn't waver. "You saw it," he said a third time, as if my sarcasm had bounced off him entirely.

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. "Seriously, is that your only line? Do you practice it in the mirror? Because if you're going to keep repeating it, at least change the delivery. Throw in some jazz hands or something."

That earned me something new. A sound. Low. Brief. Almost a laugh, if men like him laughed.

And for reasons I couldn't explain, the sound made my heart trip over itself.