4. Stop Thinking of Artichokes and Hot Men
4
STOP THINKING OF ARTICHOKES AND HOT MEN
Leighton
I have the feeling that Birdie is up to something. It couldn’t be that she sent her ridiculously hot grandson to be an underwear stand-in. Not a random grandson, either, but the guy who was this close to asking me out the last time we crossed paths.
As someone who adores her own Grams, I have mad respect for this level of matchmaking puppetry.
Only I don’t have time for it right now. Katrina will be here in twenty minutes, and this shoot is too important for me to get lost in the flirting zone with this hot chef with his hot, thigh-hugging jeans, and the shirt sleeves that can’t hide the breadth of his biceps or the strength of his shoulders. The rolled cuffs reveal a leather bracelet and a tattoo of an arrow on the fair skin of his muscular forearm. He looks strong for a chef. Must be all those cast-iron skillets he lifts. Yes, this man can cook me artichokes anytime .
Stop thinking of artichokes and hot men.
I shake off thoughts of two of my favorite things and get down to brass tacks.
“Birdie told you about the shoot?” I’d bet she didn’t disclose much.
“She said you’re a boudoir photographer,” Miles says, gesturing to the studio space, with its bed and plush furniture meant to showcase sensuality and luxury. “But I can pick up the context clues too.”
I toss him a look. Hush Hush studio is run by a more seasoned photographer who is, of course, not here at the moment because I’ve booked it for the rest of the day. But he doesn’t need the details of just how new I am to the job. I’ve got a few gigs under my belt as well as my assistant work. And, really, I am a boudoir photographer, though it’s not all I shoot.
I gesture to the emerald velvet curtains, then the red satin sheets. “Did something give it away?” I ask innocently, looking at him when I talk. I find that often trains people to do the same for me, before I know them well enough to ask them to look my way. It’s a tricky balance since some men misread prolonged eye contact. But if I don’t look at him, I might miss something he says. My hearing loss is only moderate, so I can hear well enough but it’s still helpful to see someone’s facial expressions and their lips moving as they talk. Those details can fill in the gaps with softer sounds that are harder to hear.
There’s nothing soft about Miles though. Not his body, or his words as he tips his forehead toward the obvious centerpiece of the room—the ruby red velvet chair. “Hard to say. Probably just a vibe,” he says, coolly, casually, but with that undercurrent of sex in his voice .
And loss or no loss, I can hear and read his tone perfectly.
Come to think of it, there’s always been a hint of sex in his voice. And it’s dangerous—the gravel in his tone sends a charge through me. He doesn’t talk like a guy my age. Like a twenty-three-year-old dude bro who sends thirst traps of himself in gray sweatpants with pecs that move on their own. Miles talks like a man, with a little mileage on him, and the knowledge that comes with experience.
I turn away from him so I don’t get swept up in this lust. “I should finish setting up.”
“Can I help?” he asks, and he’s close enough that I can still hear him.
“I’m good, but walk with me, and I’ll give you the details.” I tell him a little about my boudoir style—empowering and focused on making her feel beautiful—as I adjust the lighting, then head to the dressing room where I’ve set up a wardrobe. Katrina’s bringing her own outfits, but I always keep options on hand—silky robes, lace, stockings, dress shirts. I have plenty of those, along with a dozen pairs of black heels in every size.
“So, here’s the plan for today,” I say as I wrap up the tour.
“I know nothing about boudoir, but I’m a fast learner. Tell me what you need me to do,” he says, his voice steady, a ballplayer ready to step up to the plate.
“Katrina isn’t doing a typical couples shoot—she’s not part of a couple anymore. Most of her shots will be solo, traditional boudoir shots, focusing on the woman, so we won’t need you the whole time. But since the whole point of the shoot is empowerment, when we bring you in, we want you to focus on her. Only her . Even if she’s not interacting with you. Or looking at you. ”
My goal is to make her an object of desire rather than to show the interplay of desire.
“Got it,” he says with a nod, like he’s recording these details. “Where do you want me?”
I take a beat to let the double meaning roll over me. “For a few, we want her sitting in this chair.” I gesture to the plush red chair that screams luxury. “And you’ll be on the bed, shirtless and in jeans. The bed is just a few feet away, and most of the time, she won’t be entirely in focus. The shot will be about…” I stop, collecting my thoughts, before I give him the specific direction, “It’ll be about your desire for her . The way you look at her . Like she’s beautiful. Like you can’t look away. Like you want her desperately. Okay?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Like I want her desperately,” he repeats.
The air crackles and it’s so clear he’s not talking about another woman.
But I stick to the plan. “You’re comfortable with that?” I ask. It’s important that he understands the type of photography I do—the consent and trust involved. It’s not pornographic; no one will be having sex, of course. But he needs to be comfortable with the heightened sexuality in the shoot.
“One hundred percent,” he says. “What else do you need?”
For you to stop turning me on with the way you listen.
“I want some shots where…” I pause then explain, “you’re getting up, like you’re prowling toward her. Same idea. You need to have her.”
His dark brown eyes lock onto mine, deep and mesmerizing, flecked with gold at the edges. There’s a line between his thick eyebrows. I bet he’s ten years older than I am. I wish I didn’t find it so sexy, the age difference. But I do, especially his intensity now here in the studio, even though it’s unnerving too. I know I can use it in the photos if he can channel it, and that’s what matters. “And I want to feel that in the photos. Can you do that?” My voice sounds breathy as I ask it. Too breathy.
A slow smile shifts the corners of his lips. “I think I can, Leighton,” he says, low and raspy, but still deliciously deep. “Should I just think about something I really want?”
The fucker. He knows what he’s doing to me. His gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s something about the way he looks at me from behind those glasses that seems like he knows things a man should know. I feel like my panties are slipping off from the way he’s looking at me.
“Yes,” I manage to say, trying to hide the way I feel since I don’t know what to expect from him.
Maybe that’s why I walked away from him the other day. I wasn’t sure if he meant it when he asked me out on a date. First dates are their own kind of hell. I don’t love to spend an hour with a stranger—let alone share with him the things I don’t love sharing. That’s why I don’t jump at the chance to have tea with strangers, even ones as tempting as Miles. Getting to know someone takes trust. I trust my family, my sister, and my friends. Above all, I trust myself. But anyone else? Not so much.
I snap back to the present and continue. “The goal with this shoot is for Katrina to feel like she’s the star of the show, and you’re here to shine a light on her.”
“I think I can do that,” Miles says, his voice as steady as ever. “I can definitely get the hang of that.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if the sparks between us were real the other day. But they’re so real now, shimmying down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly .
This is bad. I can’t start a boudoir session feeling turned on. I can’t be thinking about a model while I’m shooting Katrina. I push the lust away, praying he can’t sense it. But the fact that he’s so focused on me—it’s unraveling me. And I can’t afford to unravel.
I tug at my neckline, adjusting it, looking for something tactile so I can stay rooted in the moment. “I hope you wore your best underwear. If not, I’ve got black boxer briefs in all sizes,” I say, as clinical as possible. Yet discussing what he’ll wear—when he soon takes off other clothes—feels anything but professional. “I’ll go grab them,” I add quickly, turning to the wardrobe, hoping he didn’t notice the way my skin heated just being near him.
“Leighton,” he calls out.
I spin around. “Yes?” My voice sounds squeaky.
“I already wear black boxer briefs. I can show them to you if you want,” he says with a tease on his mouth. His lush, sexy, flirty mouth that belongs to a man, not a boy.
Never have I wanted a man to strip so badly. That’s why I say, “You know what? I’m just going to trust you on that.”
“Fair enough. And I’ll trust you to help me focus on the client. I can tell this is important to you,” he says, his tone serious. All the flirting has been stripped away now. “I want it to go well.”
Holy shit. He’s not flirting—he actually cares about my job.
And that only makes me like him more. “Thank you. That means a lot to me—that opinion.”
“Good,” he says with a smile that’s too disarming.
I turn around for real, vowing to take several deep breaths and focus entirely on the client who’s about to arrive. I steady my breathing as I check my Nikon’s settings. I have the lens perfectly adjusted, when my phone buzzes with an incoming text and I scan it.
Dad : Still on for breakfast tomorrow at the usual?
I told Birdie he’d never disappoint me. He’s the most dependable person I know. Just like how he’s never missed a game coaching the Sea Dogs in five years, he’d never miss a breakfast with his daughter.
I write back that I can’t wait, then tuck my phone away to focus on the guy who’s with me. Briefly, I imagine introducing Miles to my dad at some point. After a few dates.
And…that’s a risky thought. One best ignored for now. Good thing my phone rings— in my ears—shifting my focus. It’s probably Katrina looking for parking. That’s a state of life in San Francisco.
I hit answer. “Hey, Katrina, are you here? The lot can be hard to find, but I can tell you where it is.”
“I’m so sorry. My youngest is sick. The school just called, and I need to go pick him up. His dad’s out of town, and my mom’s at work. I know I paid a nonrefundable retainer, but I just can’t make it today.”
My shoulders sag. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m so sorry he’s sick. Of course we can reschedule.”
She promises to get back to me soon, and when I hang up, I turn to find Miles sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me expectantly. “She’s not coming?”
“Did you hear that? Our conversation?” I ask, surprised. The phone connects with my hearing aids, so any noise or sound from my phone goes directly into my ears .
He shakes his head. “No, but I could see the disappointment in your eyes.”
Oh. He’s good with facial expressions too. That’s…interesting. Unusual too. He pauses, his gaze thoughtful. “You really wanted this to happen today, didn’t you? Not just for her—for yourself too?”
I swallow. He’s been flirty, direct, and clever, but this...this understanding side of him? The way he reads me? It’s all new to me. And because it is, I choose honesty. “I was really looking forward to it,” I admit. “I had some great ideas. Some new poses I wanted to capture.”
The studio goes quiet. I can almost see the gears turning in his mind. Then he stands, strides over to me, and offers me a hand. “Use me. Show me what you wanted to do.” He steps even closer—dangerously so. “Practice with me.”