“Talk to me.” It’s almost a whisper, husky and desperate.
It does things to my insides. Swoony, throbby inconvenient things. I stare at him, my limbs unmoving and heavy, my stomach clenched with anticipation and indecision. He needs distraction, and I can’t think of a thing to say. His eyes widen, a plea. I swallow hard.
“What’s your best football moment?” I ask. It’s a standard question. Get the client to talk about what they love. But I truly want to hear his answer.
He takes a breath, and his gaze turns inward. “Freshman year of high school I made the varsity team. It was just after our first practice.”
I take a picture. But he doesn’t seem to notice that. He’s not looking at the camera, but past it, as if he sees only me.
“Coach had us doing ladder sprints over and over. I was exhausted. My legs felt like jelly. My thighs burned like hell fire.”
His thighs—those massive, beautifully muscled thighs—clench as if remembering that pain.
“So there I was,” he goes on in a soft, fond voice, “limping off the field with my teammates, the sun so low it lined the tree tops. And I just kind of stopped there at the edge of the field, listening to the guys joke and laugh, and I got this feeling.” He pauses and smiles. “That this was it, you know? I knew right there and then that football was where I belonged. It just clicked.”
He stands in the light, his feet planted wide, utterly naked. He should look ridiculous. But he doesn’t. He looks like a warrior, a man completely at home with his body.
“And here you are,” I rasp before clearing my throat. “You’ve attained the highest possible position in football.”
A slow smile unfurls. “Yes, I have.”
Pride fills his voice, makes it stronger. But there is also joy. I feel it reverberate in my heart. “That moment,” I tell him. “Is what I want to capture.”
He blinks, his body twitching. And then he’s somehow standing taller. “You want the joy?”
I take another shot, not breaking eye contact with him. “I want you to remember that joy. It will shine through.” Another shot. “Despite what you may think, that is what people respond to. That gorgeous body of yours is an expression of what you do, who you are.”
When he looks at me, it’s with a slow burn of heat. “You think my body is gorgeous, Chess?”
My heart thumps against my ribs. I could lie to him, throw snark his way, but it would ruin this moment. I won’t see Finn Mannus after this job is done. We will never be friends. And despite my superficial attraction to him, we will never be lovers. But right now, in this space, there is something pure between us. He’s letting me see him as he really is, no pretense. I cannot hide in the face of that honesty. I lower my camera.
“Yes, Finn,” I tell him. “I do.”
For a second, I think he might reach for me. But he simply draws in a breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes never leave mine. “I’m all yours, Ms. Copper. What do you want me to do?”
So many ways to answer. But I’m calmer now. He’s in my hands, and I will not fail him.
“Will you get on the floor?” I ask.
His brow quirks.
“People will expect a nice chest shot,” I explain. “Maybe you holding a football over your—”
“Junk,” he puts in with a slanting smile.
I expressly do not look at said “junk” but nod. “I get that this is supposed to be a nude calendar. But I don’t want to objectify you.” Let’s ignore the fact that you mentally ogled him like a perve. “Your body is your instrument. If you’re in an unexpected pose, it makes people look at you in a different way.”
“All right, then.” With the grace of a world-class athlete, he lowers himself to the floor.
I raise my camera and peer through the lens. “Can you roll onto your stomach and brace yourself on your elbows? I want a look at that tat.”
Finn’s lips twitch on a smile as he turns, planting his elbows and forearms on the floor. His biceps bunch as he easily lifts his torso up. Gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. And his ass? It clenches as if he’s….
I push the thought away.
The tattoo running along his ribs is a black outline of the state of California with the Golden Gate Bridge inside of it.
“Hold on a sec.” Setting down my camera, I run over, adjust the lighting, and take a reading. Usually James would do this, but I don’t want to break the spell by calling him in. Finn doesn’t move, but watches me out of the corner of his eye. Unable to help myself, I crouch down and gently tuck back a lock of his hair that’s creating a bad shadow.
The second I touch him, I know it’s a mistake. The air between us changes, drawing tight. A hum pulses in my bones, and his expression goes intent, his focus never wavering from mine. In that instant, I know him. I know him. I feel like I’ve known him my whole existence, like I’ve been waiting for him to return from wherever he’s been.
My muscles seize with the urge lean in, feel his skin, rest my cheek next to his, do... something. I see that knowledge reflected in his blue gaze, as if he wants the same. Blood rushes in my ears, my heart thudding like a warning drum.
But then he blinks, sucks in a light breath—just enough to get some air. And a wall comes down between us. I need that wall.
My head clears and finally I can breathe too, as if I’ve been let out of a trap. With a smile that is forced and fake, I rise up. “Perfect.”
I hate the gravel in my voice. But neither of us acknowledges it. He merely gives me a tight nod. The weight of his attention presses on my back as I retrieve my camera.
Behind the lens, Finn is both smaller, yet more detailed. I take my time focusing, setting up the shot, giving myself and him a chance to settle. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I don’t like it.
“Tell me about the tat,” I say, snapping a picture.
His gaze goes to my arm. “Tell me about yours.”
“I thought it would look pretty.”
“That the truth?”