Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
It’s something Lily, my boss and my mentor, taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. She escorted me through the locker room my first day on the job and said, “The best piece of advice I can give you is this: don’t ever look down.”
I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?
When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.
Everywhere, there were dicks. It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.
I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.
That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”
That piques my interest big time. A cover was always my secret hope. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. And helpful for him.
I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.
“Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.
“That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.
“That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”
I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.
Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.
My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.
Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.
Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.
“I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.
Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away, he shifts something to his shoulders.
I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.
His towel.
His freaking towel is on his shoulders.
Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.
Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.
I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “These are fantastic,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.
May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.
“Glad you like them,” Jones says, no teasing or sarcasm now.
I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine.
I look away, and review the photos. Flipping through every gorgeous shot.
“I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.
It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.
“No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” Then he glances at the towel on his shoulder, like he just realized it was there. “Oops. My bad.” In a flash, he drops a football to the floor, then whips the towel around his waist.