“I’m testing out the new kit, and my friend Tyler Blackwell here doesn’t have any senior pictures. I can’t allow him to use those generic crap pictures in the yearbook. So he’s doing me a favor letting me test my new toys, and I’m doing him a favor so he doesn’t look back twenty years from now and curse himself for not getting real pictures.”
I didn’t think Jordyn could look like she hated me more than she did with the jacket thing, but I was wrong. If she were able to make my head explode from one simple look, I would be blissfully out of my misery.
Jordyn makes a gross throaty noise but she doesn’t decline or question his request. She glares at me the entire way to the kitchen. Before I can overthink it, I find myself following.
Jordyn shoves me into the cabinet to get me out of her way. She retrieves the iron from the nearby closet. Then she slams the iron onto the ironing board and throws the cord at me. I catch it, much to her disappointment, and I search around until I locate the nearest outlet.
The moments until the iron is hot are spent in awkward, silent hostility. I’m afraid to look at her. Occasionally Henry grunts or makes an excited noise in between clicks from the next room.
I see Jordyn shuffle closer to the iron in my peripheral vision so I finally look up. She gives me a look that says, Well?
Apparently the iron is ready. I turn toward the studio to get the rest of my clothes, but her voice stops me. “You didn’t think to get your stuff while you sat here staring at the floor for the last five minutes?”
“I just . . . I . . .”
“Oh. I forgot I’m dealing with a football player.” She turns back toward the iron.
As soon as my shirt is unbuttoned, I playfully throw it at the back of her head, hoping I might snap her out of her bad mood. She grabs blindly, somehow managing to catch the shirt before it falls to the floor. Then she turns to glare at me, but when she sees my state of undress, her cheeks and ears turn the faintest shade of pink, and as she attempts to lay my shirt the proper way on the ironing board, the material slips through her fingers. Her discomposure is killing me and I’m trying so hard not to laugh. At least she doesn’t seem to be pissed at me anymore.
After retrieving the rest of my stuff, I get uncomfortably close to her so I can see what she’s doing. I’m sure I’ll be expected to take it from here.
“Do you mind?” She elbows at me not meaning to make contact, but she hits me in the stomach, which I flex. (What? It’s instinct.) Her ears flare red again when she realizes I’m still shirtless. Her whole body stiffens and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. But I am kind of regretting not putting on another shirt now. I mean, she does have a hot iron in her hands, and my bare chest might make an awfully tempting target.
I take a few steps back and clear my throat. “You gonna show me how to do this, or do you just want to play maid today?”
She sets the iron on its end and gestures for me to take it, meeting my eyes with the best “fuck you” glare I’ve ever seen.
I pick it up and await instructions.
“Oh, please. You really expect me to believe you’ve never ironed before?” she says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“It was implied.”
“I told Henry I suck at it. And that’s true.” I set down the iron and go to get my evidence.
She quickly picks up the iron and places it on its end, looking at me exasperatedly as I hold up a white shirt to show her the triangular scorch mark on the back near the left armpit.
She slowly shakes her head at me.
“So you see why I might be a little gun-shy?” I say.
“Well, maybe if you didn’t set the iron on the fabric and walk off, you wouldn’t have a stupid-looking burn on your armpit. And you obviously don’t learn from your mistakes.” She glances at the iron she just picked up.
And now I feel like an idiot.
I scoot past her back to the ironing board and accidentally brush against her, taking absolutely no pleasure this time when my nakedness makes her bristle. It’s just not fun anymore. When I finish, I make a show of setting the iron on its end.
“You’re not finished.” Jordyn grabs my arm. I tense, partially because I’m uncomfortable having her touch me while I’m still half naked . . . but mostly because I’m . . . not.
“You really think I’m ready to tackle buttons?” I gesture at my white shirt for emphasis, hoping she didn’t sense my temporary lapse in judgment.
“Oh my god. You’re such a guy. It’s not rocket science. Here.” She pushes me out of the way and picks up the iron. Then she gently brushes the pointy tip between the buttons. The clacking of iron hitting plastic makes me nervous.
“Won’t the buttons melt?” I don’t think she understands just how much I can’t afford a new shirt.
“Only if you set the iron on them and walk away.” She bugs her eyes out at me, and I laugh.
When I finish the blue shirt, I pull it over my shoulders and quickly button it, feeling a huge sense of relief that I’m no longer half naked—I should have just grabbed another shirt to begin with.