Chapter 19
Wes
In all the many, many times I imagined myself being half naked with Nina, I can’t say this is exactly what I had in mind. Ideally, there were fewer other men involved in my fantasy, as in zero other men. Not so many lumberjack caps.
But the craft services table? That can stay.
There’s something about being in nothing but my underwear that makes me much more aware of Nina’s presence.
I have to stop myself several times from openly staring at her as she goes about her business.
To distract myself, I strike up a conversation with some of the other guys.
I learn that Everett is really into bird calling and that Scott can complete a thousand-piece puzzle in under two hours.
I give little bits of myself, slightly amended or skewed, to Nate R.
’s personality so he’ll ring more true, and so I won’t feel so much like I’m lying to everybody I talk to.
I push down the pang of guilt I feel anyway, because no matter how many times I go undercover, I forget how much this part sucks.
What I don’t do is follow Nina with my eyes as she moves around, helping contestants with the various extra bits of their costumes.
I don’t do that! I do catch myself flexing my muscles compulsively, because I am basically naked, surrounded by dudes who look like they were carved by Michelangelo.
I’m, weirdly, getting the butt workout of a lifetime with all this clenching and unclenching, so that’s an unexpected perk.
Am I aware of where Nina is in proximity to me at all times?
Sure. Nothing wrong with that. I’m just keeping tabs on my informant.
Making sure she’s safe. Am I also aware of how some of the other contestants are responding to her?
Do I notice the way Oliver straightens and thrusts out his chest whenever she passes by him, or the way Lee seems to lose his train of thought when he looks directly into her beautiful big dark eyes?
Clearly, yes.
I’m only human. I can’t help myself. But I don’t tuck Nina under my arm like a football and run off into the forest, so. There’s that.
“Nate R.?” the other wardrobe assistant calls—I think her name is Deja.
I snap to attention, turning away from the small group of guys I’ve been shooting the shit with. “Over here!”
She jogs over, carrying a plain box in her hands. “Sorry, still learning everyone’s names.”
I know that’s probably code for Most of you won’t stick around long enough for me to bother learning your name, but I smile good-naturedly nonetheless. “No problem. What can I do for you?”
“Sienna and Rae watched the footage from the first night and decided you’re the funny guy,” Deja tells me.
I furrow my brow. “The funny guy?”
Deja waves a hand. “You know—on shows like these there’s always different guys.
The smart guy. The aloof guy. The sweetheart guy.
The heartthrob guy.” Seeming to realize she probably shouldn’t have said that last one—and thereby let me know that I’m definitely not in that category—she rushes to add on, over enthusiastically, “And the funny guy!”
Great. The petty part of me wants to insist that in almost every other group of guys, I’ve always been the heartthrob guy. My prison nickname was Cassanova, for goodness’ sake! But I definitely can’t say that, and so I do my best to smile through my grimace. “Awesome.”
“Anyway, they thought it would be hilarious if you had an add-on to your costume.” Deja opens the box, showing me what’s inside. “Fun, right?”
It’s a coonskin cap. You know, with the furry top and the raccoon tail trailing down the back, like something Davy Crockett might wear. “So fun,” I manage finally.
Oh, Raquel and Sienna are clearly messing with me. Maybe they even hate me. Maybe they want me to be so humiliated that I remove myself from the show. Possibly even the planet.
But even if it weren’t my job to roll with whatever punches come my way, to stay undercover for as long as possible, I wouldn’t want to give either woman the satisfaction of seeing me crawl away with my tail between my legs.
Instead, I’ll wear the cap proudly on the top of my head.
They want me to be the funny guy? I’ll give them a funny guy.
I’m pulled out of my dramatic resolution when Deja randomly pokes me in the stomach. “Hey!” I protest, flinching away and putting a protective hand up. No one pokes funny guy in the tum-tum!
“Sorry.” Deja doesn’t sound all that sorry—liar, liar, pants on fire. “Your skin tone isn’t going to read well on camera. All your definition is gonna get washed out.”
Hi, Salt, have you met my good friend, Open Wound? Apparently, I’m funny, pasty, and not as muscularly defined as the other guys. Got it. Maybe I should pull up my bank account info so Deja can find some more ways to take digs at me. “Okay?”
“Nina will help you out with this. Nina!”
Before I can fully brace myself, Deja waves Nina over to my side. I clench all of my muscles reflexively, torn between dreading how I’m about to be humiliated but also excited to be near her in any capacity. Oh, you glutton for punishment, you.
Nina approaches, not quite making eye contact with me, a flush already creeping into her cheeks. Maybe that flush can be attributed to her being around so many hunky dudes in their underwear, but I see it in the brief moment our gazes connect. That flush is for me.
“Nate needs some help with his abs,” Deja tells her. “You know what to do?”
Nina nods, which makes me wonder just how many other men’s abs she’s been handling today, but I quickly push the thought aside, because I feel like it might make me go on a one-man journey to Spiral Town, and I do not have time for that today.
Reassured, Deja hurries off, undoubtedly to humiliate one of the other guys, leaving me alone with Nina. Well, let me take that back. We’re not alone. We’re surrounded by a bunch of guys and the production crew as they set up the first shot they’re going to do.
But any time I get to stand this close to Nina, look into her eyes, talk to her, it feels like it’s just the two of us.
For a moment, we just gaze at each other.
I know I can’t let this drag out for too long, but I give myself thirty seconds to drink her in.
She’s wearing a white cardigan today. She looks so beautiful in white.
Like an angel. Her beautiful dark hair is braided, and I would give anything, anything, just to reach out and touch the soft ends.
Okay, officially time to snap out of it. I draw in a breath. “Sorry you have to, uh, paint my abs.” God, I’m stupid. How did I ever get hired by the FBI? “Do you need me to clench or is it better if I just let loose?”
Nina can’t quite make eye contact with me. Another flush begins climbing her neck, and it sends an unexpected flare of heat surging through me. “Uh, clenching is better, if you can.” Focusing in on my torso, she bites her lip.
Knowing Nina, she is not doing this to turn me on.
But try telling that to the Dread Pirate Roberts.
(Yes, I call my cock the Dread Pirate Roberts, and no, I won’t be answering any further questions about that.) Things are about to take a very weird turn on set if I can’t diffuse some of the tension between us.
Thinking quickly, I theatrically spread my arms and legs wide. “My body is your canvas. Paint me like one of your French girls, Nina.”
She smiles, one of her sweet, reluctant Nina smiles—the kind that feels special because it’s so hard to earn. “Don’t distract me,” she scolds, but her eyes are sparkling. “Otherwise your abs will look like a Picasso painting.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” But I obediently shut up, clenching and waiting for her to do her thing.
Makeup and brushes in hand, Nina leans forward so she can begin contouring my abs.
Let me say that again, louder for the people in the back—Nina’s hands and face move in close proximity to my abs, which happen to be located very near another part of my anatomy that is very excited by the prospect of these hands and that mouth getting closer to it.
While I’m practically naked.
With only a teeny, tiny pair of red underwear to cover up any awareness I feel about this scenario.
Dammit, Dread Pirate Roberts! Be cool!
Think of the queen! I urge myself. It’s something my dad used to tell me to do if I started to get, ahem, inconveniently excited.
He was talking about Queen Elizabeth, of course, because imagining a grandmotherly figure is supposed to kill your libido.
But I can’t help but think of my queen, Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, and then I think of Nina wearing one of Daenerys’s outfits, and that definitely isn’t helping my situation at all.
Then, by a pure stroke of luck, something happens that completely deflates any possibility of sexual tension. Oblivious to my distress, Nina dips one of her brushes into some dark brown makeup and begins dabbing it onto my torso. The soft brush tickles my skin.
And I giggle like a schoolgirl.
To be clear, I don’t usually sound like Hello Kitty when I laugh. It must be a combination of my nerves and Nina’s nearness and the whole situation with the underpants. But the sound that comes out of me is not remotely masculine or cool.
We both freeze. Nina looks up at me. I look down at her. I realize this could be the moment I become overcome with awkwardness, because of my wounded masculinity, and get weird and snippy and drive her away.
Instead, I waggle my eyebrows at her.
My eyebrows are independent forces of their own, so I’m not worried about anyone nearby seeing this and thinking I’m flirting.
There’s nothing sexy about what I’m doing with my face.
I know I look absolutely ridiculous, and I lean into it, hard.
“There’s more where that came from, honey britches,” I promise her. “I’m ticklish as hell.”
It’s Nina’s turn to giggle. She’s doing her best to muffle the sound, pressing her lips together tight and inhaling through her nose.
I don’t want her to hold it in, though. I want to hear her laugh.
So even though it doesn’t take long for me to get used to the sensation of the bristles, I continue to ham it up.
Every time she puts her brush on my skin I squeal theatrically.
I giggle, manfully. I contract then expand my stomach to make it roll like a beach wave. (Jealous?)
This whole spectacle isn’t just about covering up my embarrassment now.
For the first time, it strikes me that I’ve never heard Nina laugh out loud.
I’ve seen her smile, but even then it seems like she often tries to subdue her reaction—pressing her lips together, hiding her emotion.
On the few occasions I’ve gotten a laugh from her, she’s kept it silent, her shoulders shaking, mouth covered, but no sound coming out.
That isn’t by accident. Someone—and I have a few educated guesses who—has made Nina feel like she shouldn’t make noise. Take up space. Express joy.
Bullshit. Not on my watch.
Despite my best efforts, though, Nina continues to hold in her laugh until she’s finally done sculpting my sweet, sweet abs.
As she steps back to check her work, I glance down, too, and am impressed by my own musculature.
Damn. If I’d known it was this easy to get ripped, I would have given up on GeekOut a long time ago and just spent my mornings reading graphic novels and eating potato chips.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “It still needs something.”
I quickly squat and pick up the coonskin cap off the ground. Pulling it down firmly onto my head, I strike a muscle man pose and resume rolling my stomach. “What do you think?”
A sharp, loud squawk erupts from Nina’s throat. It sounds like when you’ve let your car sit for too long and you try to get the engine going again—the protesting, whirring sound of a machine left idle too long. Nina claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting up to me in horror.
But there’s no need. I’m grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. I got her to laugh, really laugh, and make a goofy noise doing it.
Maybe I am Funny Guy?
Turns out, I don’t hate it.
With color in her cheeks, Nina packs up her supplies. “I better see if Deja needs anything . . .”
After one last lingering, charged look at me, she leaves.
I try not to make it too obvious that I’m totally staring after her.
A moment later, I feel a presence at my side. Morrie. He clears his throat. “So, you remember you’re Nate Russell, right?” he says quietly, not looking at me.
I, too, continue to stare straight ahead. “Uh-huh.”
“And your sole focus is on Harmony Miller, and nobody else, correct?”
“Yep.”
“And you shouldn’t be wasting your energy flirting with or even thinking about anyone else, especially not one of our informants?”
Even though I already know what Morrie is saying is true, the reality of our situation still sits in my throat like a weight. I give a slight jerk of a nod. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” It sounds so firm, so final, the way Morrie says it. So who can blame my heart for clenching up, just a little? For missing something that was never mine to have.