He smirks at that, but stands. “No, way. I don’t know who the hell got past security. I’m answering the door.”
We both go, bickering along the way. Which is ridiculous, but I can’t seem to let it go; I have this weird sense that Finn shouldn’t answer it.
But he does, swinging it open as if he’ll gladly pummel anyone who’s here with ill intent. That all changes when he sees the woman standing in the hall.
At his side, I halt, my skin prickling in shock. Because the woman is stunning. White-blonde, silky hair, ice blue eyes, tanned skin, and the kind of bone structure artists commit to marble. It’s my job to photograph women like her. And though I’ve never worked with this woman, I know who she is immediately. Britt Larrson. A supermodel whose face currently graces the cover of Vogue.
She and Finn stare at each other as if nothing else exists.
It drops the bottom out of me. These two are golden people. The kind of pairing that media and fans alike eat up and sigh over.
“Britt.” Finn’s voice is a rasp.
She leans toward him but stops, her gaze falling on me.
The back of my neck tightens. Finn flinches as if he’s forgotten I was there. I don’t blame him; if I liked women that way, I might have forgotten too.
“Britt. This is Chess. Chess, Britt.” It sounds like he’s chewing on nails.
She gives me the barest of nods. “Hello.”
“Chess is a photographer,” Finn says, as if explaining something.
I’m small time. And she knows it.
Britt’s features tighten a fraction. “Yes. The calendar photographer. I’ve heard. Must have been a big deal getting to shoot you and your team.”
Nice. I could say something snide. But it isn’t worth it. Finn looks as if he’d rather the floor swallow him whole. He still hasn’t moved back from the door or offered to let Britt in. She stands there awkwardly, clearly at a loss, and clearly expecting more.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says then, another glance in my direction.
Finn straightens then as if coming out of a fog. “Ah…yeah.”
His neck is so stiff, I have to wonder if he’s actively trying not to look my way.
Enough is enough.
“I’m just headed out,” I announce, grabbing my purse and keys. Both of them thankfully sitting on the hall console. Then I remember my phone. “Let me just get my phone…”
I jog to the kitchen, my temples throbbing.
Finn and Britt haven’t moved from their spots by the door. But Finn frowns my way. “You don’t have to—” He shuts his mouth abruptly, then grimaces. “Thanks, Chess.”
The apology in his eyes irks. The hell if I’ll let him see that. I give Britt what I hope is a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same,” she says with about as much sincerity.
She’s going to eat my cheese. I hate her.
I leave without looking back.
Chapter Ten
Finn
* * *
My feet seem to have grown roots. I can’t make them move. My body is one dull throb of old pain and new shock. Dimly, I take note of Chess walking out, her dark, glossy hair swaying like an agitated ribbon down her back.
Don’t go.
I want to call her back. It would be easier that way. I could shut the door on Britt’s face and tuck Chess back against my side. But that’s the coward’s way out.
Britt makes a small sound, and I snap out of my fog. My parents taught me better than this.
“Come in.” I step back to let her pass.
She leaves a trail of expensive and too flowery perfume. That scent stuck to my skin and gave me a headache when I’d fucked her.
Not something I want to think about.
I follow her into the living room, watch her as she strolls around, taking in the space. When Chess had done the same, I’d been filled with a strange need for her to be pleased, to like my place. With Britt, I just want her to spit out why the hell she is here.
Britt stares down at the coffee table with the appetizers Chess set up so prettily, and I am hit with a sense of wrongness that she’s here and that Chess is out there somewhere.
I have never had anyone welcome me home before. Never knew I needed it until I walked in the door and saw Chess standing there, so fucking pretty in her casual jeans and black v-neck top. And so adorably nervous and prickly about doing something nice for me.
Maybe it’s true that she always has a little personal happy hour. But she clearly had included me in her plans tonight. That makes all the difference.
“You’re living with the calendar photographer?” Britt asks.
Seems like a petty distinction, calling her a calendar photographer when she’s more than that. But I let it slide. “Chess, and she’s staying with me, yes.” It’s none of Britt’s business. But I’m not trying to hide anything.
Britt nibbles on her bottom lip.
“How do you know who she is, anyway?” I ask.
“They are showing pictures of you two. At an aquarium. Food shopping together.” Her smooth brow barely wrinkles. “They’ve been taking pictures of her coming out of your building all week.”
Great. Chess will love that.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Britt shakes her head as if I’m naive. “I envy you your ability to tune out the press. They’re everywhere, Finn.” Her lashes sweep low. “They photographed us once too.”
Annoyance skitters up my spine and claws my neck. “They took photos of everyone at that party. It was fashion week.”
Fact: football players troll fashion shows and parties for models. Not because they like clothes. When you’re a rookie and you get invitations to hang out with the most beautiful women in the world, you go. Hell, you’re ecstatic.
Models, actresses, pop stars, they love us. We’re fit, rich, and most of us aren’t looking for complicated. Is it a shallow set up? Sure. But as long as no one gets hurt, why should it matter?
Only sometimes, people do get hurt.