The mere fact that he’s not hiding his fear is admirable to me. I keep my expression neutral and take a shot to check the light. “If he decides to give us a wave, we ignore him. Just like I do whenever that happens.”
“Happens often?” he asks, brightening.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Ryder, that penises can have minds of their own.”
“Or lack of,” he agrees with a little laugh.
He relaxes, and we get through just fine. But all the while, there’s a burr under my skin, an annoying thud of my heart against my ribs. Because, unlike Jake, I am not at ease. Not one bit. And I know who is to blame.
The Asshat. Mannus.
I could pretend I don’t know why he affects me when the others don’t. But it would be a lie. I’m attracted to him. And it is horrifying.
Usually, I need to like a man in order to feel a spark. Asshats who clearly think they’re hot shit do not get a more than a passing glance from me. And why should they? I’m around good-looking men all the time. Physical beauty is nothing more than an appealing package to gaze on. What’s below the surface is so much more interesting.
The fact that Finn Mannus, who annoys the hell out of me, has been tickling the edges of my thoughts since I’ve set eyes on him is not a welcome experience. That he’s up next and I’m going to have to see him naked, that I’ll need to keep my composure and photograph him, is messing with my head. A lot.
My insides are stupidly fluttering and swooping. My fingers are cold, but my skin is hot. I’m so annoyed with myself, I want to take five and slap my own face. At this rate, I’m going to need James to give me a “bitch, be cool” lecture.
I just need to get through the day, and soon it will all be a hazy memory. I’ll drink a glass of chilled white wine—or maybe an icy shot of vodka at this rate—and get ready for my date with…Shit, what was the guy’s name? I blink, unable to remember.
Adam? Marvin? Melvin? “Evan!”
“What?” Jake Ryder peers at me in confusion.
I clear my throat and lift my camera. “Nothing. Carry on.”
The advice goes for me as well. There is no way I’m going to be distracted by a mouthy quarterback. No freaking way.
* * *
Finn
* * *
“You seem…tense.”
I halt mid-pace and shoot Dex a look that would make most guys fuck off. The guy merely settles back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and raises a brow. Since I’ve been trying to get him to be more involved with the team, I should be glad he’s taking any interesting in talking. Because Dex rarely does. But right now is not the time.
It feels like ants are crawling over the lining of my stomach. And it’s all I can do not to claw them out. I haven’t been this unsettled since my last college championship game. A game I fucking lost to his team, thank you very much. So I’m not in the mood to play.
“You’re done with your shoot,” I tell him. “Doesn’t that mean you can go now?”
His smile is thin and knowing. “I drove all of us here, remember?”
I do now. Shit.
“And even if I hadn’t,” he continues blandly. “I wouldn’t want to miss this.”
“Miss what?” I ask, even though I know full well what.
“You falling apart. It’s fascinating. You get stiffer with each turn you take around the room.”
I let my hands drop to my sides and order my shoulders to releax. My body ignores the directive. “Find something better to do.”
“Can’t. This is basic study,” he says. “Now, I know the signs when you’re close to losing your shit on the field.” As my center, the more he knows about my body language, the better. I tell myself this, but I really want to knock the legs out from under his chair.
“Dexter, when I’m about to lose my shit on the field, I’ll tell you. I have absolutely no qualms admitting when I need help during a game.” Some QBs would rather swallow their left nut than show any weakness. But we’re a team out there. And I believe in teamwork, not fucking up just to save face.
Dex tilts his head and inspects me as if I’m some sort of exotic bug that flew in through the window. Shit, I can’t think of bugs. It pulls my attention back to the uncomfortable prickling in my gut.
“And now?” he asks. “You gonna admit what’s getting to you in this situation?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I mean, I know what it is, but are you going to admit to it?”
Cursing, I lean against the rough exposed brick wall of the loft, and let my gaze wander around Chester Copper’s living area.
Chester Copper. Despite my discomfort, I want to smile. God, she’s a handful. The kind that will bite your hand off. It’s kind of hot, in a pissed off gloom and doom kind of way. I guess I’d be pretty pissy if I was a girl and my parents had named me Chester.
My smile fades. It’s clear she thinks I’m an asshole. I’m usually better at charming women. My game is off today. But I was expecting an old guy name Chester, someone who I might have been able talk football and maybe get away with asking him to take a few quick photos before I fled. Not a blunt woman with dark green eyes that seem to flay my skin and see right under it.
She had assessed and dismissed me in a glance. While I’m used to being judged on my looks, I’m usually not found wanting. I shouldn’t give one great fuck. And I don’t really, except now I’m supposed to strip down in front of her and pose before the unyielding glare of her photo lens.
The studio is cordoned off by massive rolling wall panels that can be moved around to block off however much space she wants. I stare hard at those panels. The harsh lights she’s using set the ceiling aglow, a beacon of my impending doom. Music throbs through the loft, some techno beat with a woman singing in a sultry voice. It started up as soon as Jake had begun his shoot.
“What the hell is that music?” I mutter.
“Goldfrapp,” Dex says easily. “‘Strict Machine’ to be precise. Great song. But I expected Jake to go for AC/DC or something like that.”