Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
To my utter, fucking horror, it’s a thong. A man thong. “Oh, hell no.”
“Why do you all say that exact thing?”
“Two guesses.” I can’t even imagine the shit the guys would dole out to any poor fuck caught wearing that nightmare.
“We’d edit it out,” he assures, his lips twitching.
“And you think that’s why I’m objecting?” I glare at the thong in his hand.
He tosses the thong back with the others. “To be honest, I’m with you. I’ve tried one on. I don’t know how women stand it. Thing feels like the world’s worst wedgie.” He glances at the thongs, and then me. “Then again, it does great things for a tight ass.”
I don’t know if he’s hitting on me or not. Something in his eyes tells me he wouldn’t object if I offered to model one for him. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a guy try to flirt with me. Probably not the last, either. Athletes and sex go hand in hand.
“As long as it isn’t my ass in one,” I tell him with a shrug.
He gives me a wry smile. “Right, then. There’s robes or towels you can use. When you’re ready, just head to the studio space.”
He leaves me to undress. The silence in the little dressing area presses in on me. The laughter of the guys rings out, but it only serves to put more distance between them and me. I tug off my shirt and try to shake the sensation of being exposed.
This is bullshit. Rolondo is right, I’ve never had a problem with people seeing me in the buff. I’m proud of my body. I’ve worked hard to perfect it, and it works hard for me. But right now, I’m not asking it to perform a task. Instead, I’m expected to put it on display.
A year ago, I would have been fine with that. Hell, I’d probably have preened like the fucking cock of the walk. Fame and adulation can swallow a person whole, until it’s all you think about. Until you believe the bullshit.
Funny how personal tragedy can strip the veil away so fast, it makes your head spin. I’m no longer blind to the bullshit. Frankly, part of me would have preferred maintaining my ignorance. Because now I feel empty, and the yawing space inside me keeps growing.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “Just buck the fuck up and do your job.”
I undo the button of my jeans and tell myself that none of it matters. Then James shows up to oil my skin, “So that the camera can pick up every swell and dip.”
I really hate this day.
Chess
There’s an old saying: the camera never lies.
Photographers know this isn’t true. The camera—and by extension, a photo—lies all the time. We make it lie through manipulation. What looks one way in real life can appear completely different in a photo. Light and dark, negative space and angles . . . so many things come into play.
The concept of beauty changes with a camera. Some ordinary people come alive behind the lens. Something about the way the light hits them, and suddenly they are utterly beautiful. Haggard, craggy lines can be wondrous. Utterly breathtaking faces can fall oddly flat.
It is my job to find the story in a face, in a body.
I remind myself of this as James leads a sullen Finn Mannus into the studio.
From under my lashes, I watch Mannus move. There is no doubt about it; the man is put together well. So very well. Perfectly proportioned, bold features: a high-bridged and straight nose, a precise jawline, and sculpted lips.
That mouth. It’s the kind of mouth that makes you think about kissing. Lazy, languid, deep kissing. Frantic, tongue-fucking kissing.
That mouth annoys the hell out of me, always quirking as if he’s on the verge of a smug smile or about to say something snarky. Except for right now.
His lips are pressed together so tightly they nearly disappear. He glances my way, and our gazes clash. It is totally unnerving the way my heart kicks in response. And unwelcome. This guy is a jerk. I’m not supposed to get breathless when I look him in the freaking eyes.
I tell myself that it’s because Mannus has beautiful eyes. He does. Deep-set, shockingly sky blue eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. The color is so intense, it’s almost unworldly.
But I’ve seen pretty eyes before.
No, it’s something else. Something about the way he focuses on a person. The power behind his stare is immense. Given that, when he opens his mouth, it’s all smug teasing and easy charm. His intense gaze doesn’t seem to fit.
I look away first. He’s too pretty for my taste. I like quirky faces with strange lines. Glossy perfection doesn’t interest me. But I’ll have to find something in Finn Mannus’s face that tells a story.