Chapter 1 #2
My body tremors involuntarily from the unwelcome memory the scent evokes.
It’s an image of my mum making pancakes in our family’s Manchester flat we lived in when we were kids.
My youngest brother, Booker, is only a few weeks old in a bassinet beside her.
Vi is holding up toys to him, completely unaware that he’s not old enough to care about toys yet.
The twins, Camden and Tanner, are wrestling on the floor in the dining area.
And before I can snap out of it, an image of my dad walking up behind my mum and tickling her sides barrels in.
Mum squeals and turns around to thump him with the spatula. The happy scene makes my stomach churn.
It was nothing like that at the end.
“Gareth?” Sloan’s voice is louder, like she’s been trying to get my attention.
I shake my head, the foggy memory rolling away as fast as it came in. “Yes? What is it?”
“Are you all right?” She steps closer, concern evident on her face, but the smell hits me all over again.
“I’m fine,” I bark and step back, trying to regain control of my own bloody mind. “Let’s just get on with it. Do you have a rack of clothes? I can usually pick out what works best for me.”
She frowns at my tone. “Is it a tactile defensiveness you have?”
“Tactile what?” I sigh with annoyance because I don’t want to talk about my texture issues.
This is why I hate endorsement deals and anything that requires styling.
People try to make all the decisions for me and I don’t like being controlled.
If my manager didn’t keep pushing me to do them so much, I wouldn’t bother.
I move past her and glance around the studio for the clothing options. “Just point me in the direction of the clothing and we’ll get this over with.”
“Mr. Harris.” Sloan says my name with such firmness, I can’t help but turn on my heel to face her. She clutches the iPad to her chest and narrows her gaze. “I’m the stylist on set today, and I’m trying to understand your needs better. Then I can execute the clothing request.”
I shove my hand through my hair and grimace when I remember the hair stylist gelled it already. “It’s difficult to explain,” I murmur, wishing I was anywhere but here.
Sensing my discomfort, Sloan’s expression instantly softens and her entire approach changes. She sets the iPad down on the chair behind her and walks toward me with a gentleness to her gaze. Her black lashes fan her creamy cheeks as she looks down my body. “Are these your clothes from home?”
I nod, my jaw tight from her close proximity.
She reaches out, and I wince as she places her palm firmly on my chest. Her touch is hard and pressurised, which allows me to exhale with some relief.
If it was soft and feathery, I’d probably start trembling.
I hate soft touches. They leave a tingling wake of sensation that’s like nails on a chalkboard.
The truth is, it’s made it difficult for me to enjoy any sort of intimacy with women as a result.
I’m the only footballer known to mankind who doesn’t shag everything that walks.
But with Sloan, it’s like she knows something.
Something I don’t fully understand myself.
Her brows lift as she strokes her hand over my pec and onto my side, continuing the strong, pressured exploration across my abs like she’s a sculptor moulding clay.
It’s an odd act to experience with a stranger, but the way she touches me is soothing.
My busy mind relaxes. My clenched jaw falls open as she walks around me, firmly dragging her hand along my ribs as she moves.
She releases me to pull the neck of my shirt open.
“You removed the label,” she states, her breath warm on the back of my neck.
I clear my throat. “They irritate my neck…This one is still on.” I lift the hem of my shirt to reveal the silky tab sewn inside the seam.
She moves around me, her scent wafting over me as she angles her head to read. I force myself to stay in the moment and not fall back into a memory. I notice her eyes pausing on my abs before zeroing in on the label.
She looks up and half smiles. “This is a nice shirt.”
I shrug halfheartedly. “It’s just a shirt.”
She shakes her head and murmurs, “Imported from Italy and custom orders only.”
Before I have a chance to realise what she’s going to do next, her head dips down as she begins fingering the back of my waistband. She pulls on my jeans and air suddenly hits my arse cheeks. A noise reverberates from the back of her throat as she gets more than a view of my bare abs this time.
Unwilling to be scared away, she fiddles with the tab on the denim. When she releases it, her flushed face returns to mine. “I think I know exactly what you need.”
I can’t help but smile at her wavering tone of voice. “You mean besides underwear?”
Her returning smile is genuine and maybe even a bit life-changing. “Yes, Mr. Harris. I can think of a few things you need.”
I chuckle. “Then I hope I can hire you year-round because it’s kind of nice having someone tell me what to do for a change.”