Chapter 19 #2
Kieren Walker. Mid-shoot. Clad in full Storm-branded gear.
Muscles tense, jaw clenched in that annoyingly photogenic way that made every camera drool.
His hair was just messy enough to look deliberate, and he was doing that thing—that thing—where he looked slightly away from the camera like he was brooding over the weight of his legacy or some tragic love lost.
It was giving leading man in a moody indie film. It was also giving me heart palpitations.
I was still trying to gather the scattered shards of my dignity when Cam appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my elbow, steering me toward a corner like we were about to exchange state secrets.
“This is working,” he whispered, eyes gleaming with PR bloodlust. “The kiss bought us two days of good press. Walker’s numbers are up.
Fan sentiment has shifted. We’re getting fewer rage comments and more thirst traps.
I’ve even seen a few ‘maybe he was just misunderstood’ edits. That’s a damn miracle, Sommers.”
“That’s great,” I said, unsure where this was going but deeply suspicious of the way his grin widened.
“So let’s keep the momentum,” he said brightly. “We’ve got a couple’s content segment planned—behind-the-scenes footage, soft moments, maybe even a mic’d-up video. You don’t have to fake anything. Just be… yourselves. But hotter.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. Hotter?”
“Yes,” Cam said, like this was a totally reasonable instruction. “Just… turn it up a little. The chemistry’s there, you just need to lean into it.”
Lean into it? Was I supposed to mount him in front of the Philip F. Anschutz Trophy?
“Cam,” I said slowly, “what exactly is the line between effective couple branding and sexual harassment?”
He patted my arm. “If you figure it out, let me know.”
Then he vanished, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts and the sound of Kieren laughing with the photographer.
I looked over and caught him watching me. Not glancing. Watching. Like I was the next drill he had to master.
And damn it, that stupid smirk was already forming.
“Nice jacket,” he said when I walked over. “But it’s not doing much to lower the temperature.”
I folded my arms. “Maybe try unclenching your jaw. You look like you’re in pain.”
He stepped closer. “Can’t help it when you’re around.”
My brain short-circuited for a full second.
I was in so much trouble.
Kieren grabbed a soccer ball when I walked up to the turf section of the studio, casually spinning it on one finger like he wasn’t already absurdly good at everything.
His gaze dragged over me—starting at my boots, then lingering way too long at my tucked-in shirt—before he smirked like he’d just confirmed a suspicion.
“You’re late,” he said, catching the ball and tucking it under his arm.
“You’re bossy,” I shot back, brushing past him like I wasn’t mildly flustered by the way his voice dipped at the end.
He took a step closer, tilting his head. “You’re bad at soccer.”
I froze. “That’s slander.”
“It’s truth. No coordination. You flinch every time the ball moves.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “I panic because I value my face.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds like fear talking.”
“It’s literally self-preservation.”
He stepped in front of me, dropped the ball at his feet, and started juggling it effortlessly, barely even looking down. Of course he could do that in full gear while making it look sexy.
“Tell you what,” he said, catching the ball and tapping it into his hands. “I’ll teach you how to juggle. For the cameras. Quick video short. Gets the fans talking.”
“Let me guess,” I said, raising a brow. “Cam’s idea?”
His grin was too smug. “Mine, actually.”
That was somehow worse.
Before I could overthink it, he stepped behind me, crowding into my space and guiding the ball into my hands. His voice dropped low enough that I could feel it against the back of my neck.
“Drop it gently, lift with your foot. Don’t kick—just pop it.”
I swallowed. Hard. “I have zero faith in this plan.”
He chuckled. “Then it’s a good thing I have enough for both of us.”
I glanced over my shoulder, our faces way too close. “Is this part of the lesson?”
“No,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s just me enjoying the view.”
I dropped the ball. On his foot.
It bounced off, rolled away, and he winced with mock betrayal. “That’s assault.”
I shrugged. “Self-defense.”
He bent to retrieve it, still smiling. “You’re lucky I like you.”
And just like that, I was spiraling again.
Kieren stepped in behind me again, far too close, like his presence alone might improve my coordination.
“Relax your foot,” he murmured, voice a little too smooth for someone giving athletic instruction.
I didn’t turn around. “Hard to do when you’re breathing down my neck like Batman.”
A low huff of laughter. “Would you rather I back off?”
That gave me pause. The air between us tightened. I didn’t answer—not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t know what the answer was.
He waited a beat, then nudged the soccer ball into my hands again. I focused on the feel of it—cool leather, slightly scuffed from actual use. Not some prop. Not pretend. Like everything else with Kieren lately, it was too real to fake.
“Let’s go again,” he said, stepping just far enough away to make it safe. And yet I still felt him, buzzing beneath my skin.
I lifted my leg, kicked up—and actually got one bounce this time. The ball dropped back down and rolled forward, but I’d made contact. A pathetic little success, but still.
“Hey,” I said, turning to gloat. “That counted—”
He wasn’t looking at the ball.
His eyes had dropped—low enough to catch the edge of my shirt, which had ridden up slightly with the motion.
Just a sliver of skin, nothing scandalous.
But his jaw flexed hard, like it did when someone pushed him too far on the field.
His arms folded, biceps straining the sleeves of his team gear.
Entirely too intense for something so casual.
I swallowed, heart thudding against my ribs.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.
His response was instant. Low. Unapologetic. “Then stop looking like that.”
And just like that, the air thickened—hot, humid, dangerous. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling. It pulsed between us, electric and unspoken.
I should’ve said something smart. Made a joke. Walked away.
Instead, I stood there, burning from the inside out.
Because the truth was, I liked the way he looked at me. And I hated that I liked it.
Worst of all?
He knew.
The photographer adjusted something on the camera, then looked up with a grin that made my stomach twist.
“Let’s try something more candid. Couple-y. Like you’re just… caught in a moment.”
I barely had time to react before Kieren moved beside me, his hand finding my waist like it belonged there. Not tentative, not uncertain—just solid, confident, warm. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. I wasn’t sure I could.
He was so close. His scent—something clean and woodsy—wrapped around me, completely unfair. His fingers pressed gently through the fabric of my jacket, grounding me in a way that made everything else fall away.
I looked up at him, and there it was again—that look. That focused, unreadable intensity he reserved for things that mattered.
“We’re really good at faking it,” I whispered, not trusting my voice any louder.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I’m not faking anything right now.”
The camera clicked.
I barely registered it.
Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like PR.
It felt like something dangerously real.
And maybe that was the problem.