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, 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; quirking like he’s on the verge of a smug smile, or about to say something snarky. Except for right now.
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 can 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 direct, serious 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.
Or maybe I just go with focusing on the body.
Wearing a white towel low around his trim hips, his skin slicked up baby oil to catch the light, most of that impressive body is on display.
Mannus doesn’t have the super lean physique of a model. He is built in bold, tough lines. Somehow both cut but solid, defined in places, with big slabs of muscular bulk in others. At six foot four, he towers over both James and myself, his shoulders wide enough to blot out the sun.
His pecs twitch as if wanting my attention. They have it. Unlike most models I work with, he has an intriguing smattering hair over his chest and abs. After seeing so many smooth chests in my profession, it feels almost illicit to look upon him, as if he’s somehow more undressed. My hands itch to glide over his torso to feel his textures.
I give myself a mental slap. Objectivity is needed here. View him as art—just as you would any other client, you hussy.
There’s a tattoo down his right side. But he’s facing me and the angle is wrong to fully view it. His right elbow is scraped and a few bruises pepper his forearm.
He walks farther into the room with a stiff and halting gait. By the scowl on his face, I’m thinking this is due to him not wanting to be here rather than from pain. But who knows?
Getting back to business, I outright study him, and his eyes narrow in irritation.
“The hair is too tidy,” I tell James. “I can see the comb tracks in it. Can you fix that, please?”
“The man attached to the hair can fix it himself,” Mannus says tightly.
“I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “However, James is the stylist, so let’s let him do his job.”
Mannus doesn’t look away from me. “You like busting balls in general, or just mine?”
“Since you’re about to be standing balls out in front of me, I’d be careful, Mr. Mannus.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. And, when he speaks, his voice is strained. “Thinking about them already, are we, Ms. Copper?”
“Not really. I’ve seen three other sets today, so my mind is a bit full at the moment.”
The smug expression falls from his face.
At his side, James snickers. “I think she just said her mind is full of balls,” he says in a sotto whisper to Mannus. “Not that I blame her. Let’s get you ready and you can give her another eye-full, eh?”
Mannus pales. “Already?”
He sounds surprised, which is odd, given that he’s wearing nothing more than a towel.
“Er… That’s the idea.” James makes a move to muss Mannus’s honey brown locks, and the quarterback rears like a skittish horse. James freezes, glancing at me with wide, “what the fuck” eyes.
I am thinking the same. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Mannus?”
He flinches, his gaze snapping between me and James, and his jaw goes tighter.
Anger swells hot in my chest. And when he doesn’t answer, I push harder. “Do you have an issue with James touching you?”
As soon as I say it, I’m sorry. I never throw James under the bus. And it is absolute shitty of me to do it now. But, damn if this guy isn’t messing with my head.
Mannus frowns so hard, his brows almost touch. “What? My masseuse touches me all the time and he’s a guy. Why the hell should I care as long as he does his job?” He glances at James. “Why is she asking me that?”
James clearly fights a smile. “I’m thinking it’s because you’re flinching like you’re about to fly out of your skin.”
Mannus’s cheeks flush. “What?”
He looks so genuinely distracted and flustered, I pause and really study him. Sweat beads at his temples, and his pulse beats a fast tattoo at the base of his strong throat. Hands low on his slim hips, his knuckles are white along the edges where he’s digging his fingers into the towel.
My heart gives a guilty lurch and then promptly goes soft along its hardened walls. He might have been an asshole with that One-Eyed Willie comment earlier, but he’s still my client, and I’m not doing my job well if he’s this unsettled.
I catch James’s eye. “Can you get me a coffee?” I don’t need one; it’s our agreed upon signal for James to clear out whenever we’re dealing with a panicky client.
“Sure,” he says, easily. “You want anything, Mr. Mannus?”
Finn shakes his head once. “No, thanks.”