Chapter 5 Jillian
JILLIAN
I won’t look down.
I repeat my mantra over and over, till it’s branded on my brain.
This might very well be my biggest challenge, and I mastered the skill of eyes up many years ago.
But now? As I stand in the corner of the photo studio, I’m being tested to my limits.
I’m dying here. Simply dying.
The temptation to ogle Jones is overwhelming, and if there was ever a time to write myself a permission slip to stare, now would be it. An excuse, if you will. For a second or two. That’s all.
The man is posing, for crying out loud. He’s the center of attention.
The lights shine on his statue-of-David physique.
Michelangelo would chomp at the bit to sculpt him—carved abs with definition so fine you could scrub your sheets on his washboard, arms that could lift a woman easily and carry her up a flight of stairs before he took her, powerful thighs that suggest unparalleled stamina, and an ass that defies gravity.
Still, I won’t let myself stare at him in person, not in his current state of undress. My tongue would imitate a cartoon character’s and slam to the floor.
If I gawk at him, I’ll start crossing lines.
Lines I’ve mastered as a publicist for an NFL team.
It’s something Lily, my boss and my mentor, taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. She escorted me through the locker room my first day on the job and said, “The best piece of advice I can give you is this: don’t ever look down.”
I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?
When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.
Everywhere, there were dicks. It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.
I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.
That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over.
“Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy. ”
That piques my interest big time. A cover was always my secret hope.
There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim.
But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. And helpful for him.
I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.
“Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.
“That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.
“That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”
I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.
Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.
My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.
Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.
Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.
“I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.
Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away, he shifts something to his shoulders.
I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.
His towel.
His freaking towel is on his shoulders.
Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.
Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.
I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “These are fantastic,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.
May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.
“Glad you like them,” Jones says, no teasing or sarcasm now.
I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine.
I look away, and review the photos. Flipping through every gorgeous shot.
“I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.
It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment.
A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo.
I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt.
“Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.
” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.
“No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” Then he glances at the towel on his shoulder, like he just realized it was there. “Oops. My bad.” In a flash, he drops a football to the floor, then whips the towel around his waist.
Wait. He was holding the football against his dick the whole time? He must have picked it back up and carried it over. I didn’t notice because . . . I WAS TRYING NOT TO NOTICE.
Plus, he does have fast hands.
“Now, I’m properly dressed,” he says.
“Yes, of course. You can walk down the street like this,” I say, giving it right back to him. I don’t let on I thought he was naked as a jaybird when we were looking at pics.
“Hmm. Not a bad idea. I do like the way this fabric falls on my waist,” he says, like he’s a fashion blogger.
The man is a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.
“Yes, it’s so trimming,” I tease back.
He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Yup. I’ll wear it to dinner.”
Then he turns, strolls away, and adjusts the towel. Unhooking it. But never removing it. Never showing his parts. Just being the wiseass he is.
But two can play reindeer games. I stare straight at the back of his head and call his name. He swivels around, a question mark in his eyes.
I point to the football on the floor. “Jones. You need to pick up your underwear.”
“Man, I am just dropping balls left and right tonight,” he deadpans, as he walks back to me, bends, and grabs the ball. Then tosses it up and catches it. “Now I’m fully dressed.”
I try not to peek at his abs. I swear I do. But I catch a glimpse of them and all the breath nearly rushes out of me. I need to get the hell out of the photo studio.
I’ve had a crush on this man since he joined the team. I head to the door in desperate search of a change of scenery, when my brain snags on something I forgot.
I curse under my breath then square my shoulders, calling out to him, “Jones, I need a picture of you for the team’s social. As part of the body issue promos.”
I swear I can feel his satisfied Cheshire cat grin forming behind me.
“You want me in my football?”
“Keep the towel on. I’m not scooping Sporting World and showing you holding a ball. Just a simple shot of you here at the photo studio. Smile for the fans who love you.”
“Will you post it this time?” he teases.
“I suspect you don’t mind I tricked you last time,” I counter.
He smiles. “I don’t mind at all.”
When I raise my phone, and he flashes a smoldering grin for the camera. Wow. Just wow.
When I post it to our feed later, I know hearts will melt and panties will fly off tonight.
But not mine.
They definitely won’t be mine. Because they can’t be mine.