Shit. Checking out Luke Archer’s package was not okay.
Other than the too-small pants, they’d provided him with a royal blue belt to match his stirrups, a flashy pair of Nike cleats, and they’d kept his team cap settled on his head, hooding his eyes just enough. I wished they’d turned it around because Archer’s eyes held in the same theme as his body—unreal.
He had a baseball bat braced behind his neck, his arms curved around the back of it, while the photographer snapped photo after photo. How many variants of the exact same pose did they need?
“How am I looking over there, Doc?” Archer kept his eyes on the camera, managing to move his lips just enough to speak. From the number of billboards, magazines, and articles I’d seen him in, he probably had lots of experience honing the skill.
Taming my stare, I swallowed and shrugged. “Like you’re the pretty boy of baseball for a reason.”
His careful expression fell, his eyes cutting to the back of the room where I was hovering against the wall, pretending not to eye-molest him like the rest of the women in the room were. And some of the men.
“Ouch, Doc. You got anything in that magic bag of yours to fix a bruised ego?”
“An ego your size?” I fired back. “Not likely.”
“Double ouch.” He spun the bat over his head, watching me.
“But I do have a tin of eye black.” I shoved off the wall, unzipping my bag. I dug around inside for it. “That should be up to the task of dirtying up a pretty face.”
No one stopped me as I moved in front of the cameras toward him. The photographer quit firing photos like he’d poured milk over his speed pills for breakfast to see what I was up to.
“My face is not pretty.” Archer juggled the bat from hand to hand, almost smirking at me as I moved closer. “It’s rugged.”
After unscrewing the tin, I dragged my fingers in the eye black and paused before lifting them to his face. When I got a “go ahead” hand twirl from the photographer and a couple others from Sports Anonymous, I drew a streak down the side of his face. He didn’t blink as he watched me draw another line down the other cheek. Dipping my fingers in again, I swirled even more on before painting a thick streak down the side of his neck.
I kept my attention on what I was doing instead of who I was doing it to. I focused on moving my fingers instead of what my fingers were moving against. The heat from his skin was transferring into the pads of my fingers, cresting over my body from his chest.
What am I doing? I was an athletic trainer, not a body paint expert.
Then I spun his cap around so his eyes could be seen better. Eyes like those should not be shadowed by anything.
“There,” I said, almost a whisper. “Now you’re rugged.” For the first time since I touched him, I glanced up to find him studying me.
His pupils were dilated, his breaths coming faster through his just parted lips. “You missed a spot.”
Grabbing my hand, his fingers laced through mine as he swirled both of our fingers through the tin. Guiding my hand back to him, he settled our fingers on his chest, drawing a thick line diagonally across it. I didn’t miss the pace of his heart as my fingers skimmed over it. It was going faster than normal, but not quite as fast as mine.
He trailed our joined hands lower, sketching a streak across his stomach. Then another down his stomach. All the way down, until the tips of my fingers brushed the nylon of his belt.
When a shiver trembled down my body, he didn’t miss it. Knitting his fingers tighter through mine, he grinned down at me.
“Yes, that’s perfect.” The photographer leaned back from his camera, examining Archer with a fist tucked beneath his chin. “I love it. Bidders will go nutso.” Then the photographer waved his finger between Archer and me. “And you know what I’d love even more? Her in your jersey.”
My head was already shaking as I started to step away.
Archer’s hand pulled me back to him. “I love that idea too. Doc in my jersey.” His gaze skimmed down me, lingering on my thighs. “In only my jersey.”
NOTHING BUT A couple pieces of underwear and a certain number 11 jersey with the name Archer stamped across the back were all I wore.
I still didn’t understand why I’d gone along with his crazy scheme, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with this shoot being for a charity that was near and dear to my heart . . . and the way Archer’s eyes had softened when he asked me for the tenth time. Although by then, he was more begging than requesting.
They were waiting for me. I could tell because it was quiet out in the main part of the room, other than the metallic ting of the baseball bat Archer was probably clinking against his cleats. The game was starting in two hours, and I still had a team to get loosened up and warmed up.
Closing my eyes, I psyched myself up as best as I could before slipping out from behind the curtain sectioning off the dressing room.
Everyone turned to look.