Chapter 2 #3
He nods again, still uneasy, but focused on me, at least. “Should we reschedule?”
So hopeful.
It’s like kicking a puppy to have to say no. “I think it would be best for both of us if we just get through this, don’t you?”
His blue gaze darts over my face, every muscle in his body going so tense, they stand out in perfect, glorious relief. Then
he sighs, and his hard stance sags in defeat. “Yeah. It would.”
But he doesn’t move.
“You can keep the towel on,” I say in the awkward silence. “We can do a torso shot.”
That gets his attention. His brows snap together, and I’m treated to a focus that is laser-sharp. This guy, I can imagine
him leading a team down field. This guy is intimidating without even trying.
“It isn’t that,” he says, deeper now. More in charge.
“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but—”
“I hate photoshoots,” he cuts in, color flooding the high crests of his cheeks. “All right? I don’t know why. I just do. I know it’s a part of my job, but it never gets easier. There’s something about them that makes me feel . . .” His shoulders lift in a helpless gesture.
His gaze is defiant, as if daring me to tease. Okay, I guess I earned that. I haven’t hidden my disdain very well. But that’s
not what I’m feeling now.
“I hate having my picture taken, too,” I tell him truthfully.
He quirks a brow at me, and I lift my camera with a faint smile. “Why do you think I’m on the other side of this thing?”
“Wanna trade places?” he asks with a little brow waggle.
I am not going to find that cute. No way. I have to focus. “I’m fairly sure no one is going to mistake me for you.”
A slow smile lifts the corner of his mouth, and those pretty eyes warm. “Absolutely no possibility of that, Chester.”
There’s the flirt I knew was lurking below the surface. My stomach flutters, and I kind of want to kick myself.
He runs his hand over his face so hard that I hear the scratch of his palm over his stubble. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
“Excellent. Do you want to wait for James to get back? Or start now?” I’m guessing the latter. And he doesn’t disappoint.
“No, I’m good.” He clears his throat. Almost as if he’s moving in slow motion, his hand goes to the knot of the towel and
tugs.
Even though I’ve put on music, I swear it’s so silent that I can hear the towel slither to the floor.
Jesus.
Like that, my heart pounds against my tight ribs, and I want to sit down, find my breath, because it has fled. Heat swirls
between my legs and down the backs of my thighs.
Professional. You are a pro-freaking-fessional.
The voice in my head is tiny and faint, drowned out by the rushing in my ears.
Mouth dry, I stare at the man before me. Our eyes lock, the silence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. I see the whole of him, utterly exposed, vulnerable yet so powerful that I can’t think straight.
His skin is smooth and golden but holds a tinge of rose to it, like a man who’s been out in the sun a bit too long, or one
who might be blushing.
He’s the fourth nude man I’ve seen today, and yet I’m the one who feels like blushing, as if he’s the first naked man I’ve
ever seen.
There’s just so much of him.
Sculpted chest, strong thighs, tight calves, and elegant feet; I take all of it in with a glance. But that’s not where I really
want to look. Unable to help myself, my gaze glides down.
I’ve been trained not to stare at a man’s penis while working. It’s rude, objectifying, unprofessional.
Yet here I am, staring.
My cheeks burn, my heart thumping out of control. I grip my camera tighter than necessary.
He’s beautiful. From a nicely trimmed nest of dark brown hair, his penis hangs thick, long, and dusky rose over a pair of
weighty balls.
And that’s enough, missy. No more gawking.
I take a deep breath, look away from the illicit view before I start imagining his cock getting thicker, harder, plumping
up with heat and want . . .
A shiver goes over my skin, and I meet Finn’s eyes. Guilt bites me, because he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’ve been perving
on him. His expression is intense, but pained.
“Talk to me.” It’s almost a whisper, husky and desperate.
It does things to my insides. Swoony, throbby inconvenient things. I stare at him, my limbs unmoving and heavy, my stomach
clenched with anticipation and indecision. He needs a distraction, and I can’t think of a thing to say. His eyes widen in
a plea. I swallow hard.
“What’s your best football moment?” It’s a standard question. Get the client to talk about what they love, and they’ll open
up to you. But I truly want to hear his answer.
He takes a breath, and his gaze turns inward. “Freshman year of high school, I made the varsity team. It was just after our first practice . . .”
I take a picture. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s not looking at the camera but past it, as if he sees that day.
“Coach had us doing ladder sprints over and over. I was exhausted. My legs felt like jelly. My thighs burned like hellfire.”
His thighs—those massive, beautifully muscled thighs—clench as if remembering that long-ago pain.
“There I was,” he goes on in a soft, fond voice, “limping off the field with my teammates, the sun so low it lined the treetops.
And I just kind of stopped there at the edge of the field, listening to the guys joke and laugh, and I got this feeling.”
He pauses and smiles. “That this was it, you know? I knew right there and then that football was where I belonged. It just
clicked.”
He stands in the light, his feet planted wide, utterly naked. He should look ridiculous. But he doesn’t. He looks like a warrior,
a man completely at home with his body.
“And here you are,” I rasp before clearing my throat. “You’ve attained the highest possible position in football.”
A slow smile unfurls. “Yes, I have.” Pride fills his voice, makes it stronger. But there is also joy.
I feel it reverberate in my heart. “That moment,” I tell him. “That is what I want to capture.”
He blinks, his body twitching. And then he’s somehow standing taller. “You want the joy?”
I take another shot, not breaking eye contact with him. “I want you to remember that joy. It will shine through.” Another
shot. “Despite what you may think, that is what people respond to. That gorgeous body of yours is an expression of what you
do, who you are.”
When he looks at me now, it’s with a slow burn of heat. “You think my body is gorgeous, Chess?”
My heart thumps against my ribs. I could lie to him, throw snark his way, but it would ruin the moment.
I won’t see Finn Mannus after this job is done.
We will never be friends. And despite my superficial attraction to him, we will never be lovers.
But right now, in this space, there is something pure between us.
He’s letting me see him, as he really is, no pretenses.
I cannot hide in the face of that honesty.
I lower my camera. “Yes, Finn. I do.”
For a second, I think he might reach for me. But he simply draws in a breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes never
leave mine. “I’m all yours, Ms. Copper. What do you want me to do?”
So many ways to answer. But I’m calmer now. He’s in my hands, and I will not fail him.
“Will you get on the floor?” I ask. His brow quirks.
“People will expect a nice chest shot,” I explain. “Maybe you holding a football over your—”
“Junk,” he puts in with a slanting smile.
I expressly do not look at said “junk” but nod.
“I get that this is supposed to be a nude calendar. But I don’t want to objectify you.
” Let’s ignore the fact that you mentally ogled him like a perv.
“Your body is your instrument. If you’re in an unexpected pose, it makes people look at you in a different way. ”
“All right, then.” With the simple grace of a world-class athlete, he lowers himself to the floor.
I raise my camera and peer through the lens. “Can you roll onto your stomach and brace yourself on your elbows? I want a look
at that tat.”
Finn’s lips twitch on a smile as he turns, planting his elbows and forearms on the floor. His biceps bunch as he easily lifts
his torso up. Gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. And his ass? It clenches as if he’s . . .
I push the thought away.
The tattoo running along his ribs is a black outline of the state of California with the Golden Gate Bridge etched inside
of it.
“Hold on a sec.” Setting down my camera, I run over, adjust the lighting, and take a reading.
Usually James would do this, but I don’t want to break the spell by calling him in.
Finn doesn’t move but watches me out of the corner of his eye.
Unable to help myself, I crouch down and gently tuck back a lock of his hair that’s creating a bad shadow.
The second I touch him, I know it’s a mistake. The air between us changes, drawing tight. A hum pulses in my bones, and his
expression becomes intent, his focus never wavering from mine. In that instant, I know him. I know him. I feel like I’ve known him my whole existence, like I’ve been waiting for him to return from wherever he’s been.
My muscles flex with the urge to lean in, feel his skin, rest my cheek next to his, to do . . . something. I see that knowledge reflected in his blue gaze, as if he wants the same. Blood rushes in my ears, my heart thudding like
a warning drum.
But then he blinks and sucks in a light breath, and a wall comes down between us. I need that wall.
My head clears. Finally, I can breathe too, as if I’ve been let out of a trap. With a smile that is forced, I quickly stand
and pretend that nothing has happened. “Perfect.”
I hate the gravel in my voice, but neither of us acknowledges it. He merely gives me a tight nod. The weight of his attention
presses on my back as I retrieve my camera.
Behind the lens, Finn is both smaller yet more detailed. I take my time focusing, setting up the shot, and giving us both
a chance to settle. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I don’t like it.
“Tell me about the tat,” I say, snapping a picture.
His gaze goes to my arm. “Tell me about yours.”
“I thought it would look pretty.”
“That the truth?”
“Yes. Boring, but true.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I like true.”
“It was the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done,” I feel compelled to admit in the name of truth.
Most people assume boldly colored hair and tattoos mean you’re a wild child or frivolous, when sometimes it’s just a simple act of self-expression.
The tattoo had happened on a day I’d been too shocked to plan out exactly what I wanted in advance.
Finn’s expression turns thoughtful, as if he’s reading my face like a book. Silence rises between us and, for a moment, I
wonder if he’ll refuse to tell me about his tattoo. But then he speaks. “Went to Stanford for college. Before my first game,
I drove into San Francisco and took a walk over the Golden Gate Bridge. Thought about all I wanted to accomplish, all I wanted
to be. Got the tattoo that weekend.”
I snap another shot. “And have you accomplished everything?”
A secretive light comes into his eyes. “Almost.”
“Hmmm. What about the roses?” He has two vibrant red roses inked on the top and bottom of the state.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “When I won my first and second Rose Bowl.” Such pride in his look. I capture it.
“And the diamond?” I nod toward the stylized diamond at the bottom of California.
“Freshman year, Coach told me I was a diamond in the rough. And if I ever made it to the pros, he’d consider me polished.”
His lips quirk. “Got that added the day after I was drafted.”
“You love your job.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a cheeky look.
“What goes through your mind just before a play?” I ask, snapping in rapid fire.
“You want me to walk you through it?” He seems more than willing to tell me, but also curious, as if he can’t figure out if
I really want to know or am just humoring him.
“No. I want you to picture the process.”
Silently, Finn drops his head. His eyes close. And my breath catches. Because he is stunning.
Stretched out on the floor, his intensity should be diminished, but it isn’t.
His body remains tight, his muscles almost quivering, as if ready to spring into action.
But his expression is a different story.
A look of peace falls over him, his lips soft, almost parting, the clean line of his jaw relaxed, and his brow smooth.
He is utterly at home within his skin, within his mind. It’s as if I’m witnessing a man at prayer. A true believer.
I feel transformed right along with him. Pure and revitalized instead of simply going through the motions. Again, that feeling
of knowing hits me. Only this time it isn’t terrifying, but a warm balm that makes me aware of my own skin, of each breath I draw in
and let out.
I almost forget to take the shot. But when I do, I know it will be the cover. A covetous part of me resents that, as if this
moment is private, something Finn Mannus has allowed only me to see.
But then I remember myself. It’s just a job. And the job is now officially done.