Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes, but my stomach tightens anyway. I step toward the mark while Ronan appears from the shadows, tense, expression unreadable. We haven’t said a word to each other all day. He walks as if he’s coiled to strike.
We take our positions in front of a wall splashed with neon Drivex logos and an LED-lit finish line arch overhead. Timmy provides direction. “Reach for the same bottle, center stage. Glance at each other like you’re sizing up the enemy.”
That shouldn’t be too difficult because I’m sure that’s what Ronan considers me.
“You going to behave?” I murmur under my breath as we face forward.
I’m surprised he answers. “That depends on your definition.”
His hand brushes mine when we both reach for the prop bottle. Just a graze, but it zings up my arm like static electricity.
Timmy flutters behind the camera. “Yes, yes! That! Do it again, but this time, Ronan, look at her like she just took the last bottle and you’re this close to demanding it back. Francesca, darling, be smug. Coy. You know how to toy with the enemy.”
We reset, but the heat between us doesn’t.
“You always this good at taking direction?” I whisper as the camera guy adjusts his frame.
“Don’t confuse cooperation with compliance.” He says it without looking at me and when the shutter clicks, I smirk like Timmy wanted and it’s not entirely fake. I lean in, a hair closer than needed, and Ronan doesn’t pull back. If anything, he shifts subtly forward. There’s barely space between us now, our shoulders brushing, our bodies angled too intimately for enemies.
Another take. This time, we’re told to square off, shoulder to shoulder, forearms raised like we’re about to wrestle the bottle away from each other. His fingers wrap over mine—strong, steady, and too warm for someone who pretends to be cold.
I try to keep my voice even. “You left the pub fast last night.”
He lifts his gaze to mine. “You left an opening. I took it.”
“Running doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does overthinking,” he murmurs.
The next pose requires us to face each other, close enough that I can feel the whisper of his breath when we exhale at the same time. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second—just long enough to make me forget the next pose.
Timmy calls, “Brilliant! One more, now with the bottle between you—hands touching. Close. Like you’re about to fight or kiss. I don’t care which.”
I move without thinking, but Ronan hesitates before stepping in. He adjusts the bottle between us, deliberately brushing his fingers over mine again.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. Then responds quitely so low only I can hear it. “You’re not the only one who didn’t sleep last night.”
The camera snaps. The wind picks up. My heart trips over itself.
And I realize I’m in trouble.
“Okay, darlings,” Timmy coos, looking at us as if we’ve hung the moon. “I could not have asked for better. Simply spectacular. I think that might be a wrap.”
“Wait a minute,” I exclaim, and everyone turns to face me. “Let’s get a few more groups.”
“Did you have specific ideas in mind?” Timmy asks with interest, and I hear Ronan, Lex and Nash all groan.
I step out of frame, wiping a sheen of sweat from my upper lip with the back of my glove. The photographer glances toward Timmy for the next setup, but I beat him to it.
“Lex, Ronan—you two in the middle,” I call out, gesturing toward the mark with a tilt of my chin. “Me and Nash on the ends.”
Lex raises a brow in amused curiosity, already halfway into motion. Ronan, predictably, doesn’t move. He turns his head slowly, fixing me with a look that could curdle milk.
I lift a shoulder. “What? It’s a fake brand unity shoot. So fake it.”
He doesn’t respond, but the muscle in his jaw jumps once. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse outright, but then Lex moves first, giving Ronan a pointed look as he walks past him toward center mark. “Let’s do this, Barnes,” he says.
Ronan blinks in surprise at being addressed by Lex and follows, slow and stiff like he’s walking toward a firing squad. He doesn’t look at me as he takes his spot beside his teammate, but the tension radiates off him like heat from an engine left running too long.
Nash and I assume our positions on the outer flanks, forming a neat, balanced row in front of the massive Drivex banner—Titans bookending the Crown drivers. Timmy squeals in delight somewhere behind the camera.
We pose. Arms crossed. Backs straight. The four of us staring down the lens like a squad of sleek, marketable assassins.
The first few shots are awkward. Ronan keeps glancing fractionally to the left, as if trying not to acknowledge Lex standing inches from him. I hold my breath every time their shoulders accidentally brush.