Johanna
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“JUST KEEP WATCHING” — TATE MCRAE
Six Years Ago
By the time we pull into the parking lot of the studio, my heart is beating so fast I’m convinced it’s going to burst straight out of my chest. I can already hear the faint thump of the bass-heavy music through the walls, and I haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.
Brandon parks in one of the guest parking spots and cuts the engine. I’m gripping my backpack in my lap like it’s the only thing keeping me together, staring at the building ahead like it’s going to eat me alive.
This is real.
Really fucking real.
“Hey,” Brandon says, his voice pulling me from my spiral. “You okay?”
He’d asked me this before we left, too. I must be a real fucking basket case for him to ask me again.
“I’m fine,” I lie immediately.
The look he gives me says he knows better, but he doesn’t say anything else. He unbuckles his seat belt and I expect him to turn to give me a little pep talk or something. Maybe he’s just going to tell me to text him when I’m done.
Instead, he opens his door and gets out.
“What are you doing?” I ask quickly, fumbling with my bag. “You don’t have to get out—”
He shuts his door, interrupting me, and comes around the front of the Bronco. He motions for me to get out, too, and when I just keep staring at him like a deer in headlights, he moves to open my door for me.
I’m temporarily too stunned to move.
“Brandon,” I say slowly, swinging my legs over in the seat to get out. “You can just… drop me off.”
He arches an eyebrow like I’ve just deeply offended him.
“No,” he replies simply.
“...No?” I echo, even more stunned than before.
“Let’s go, Johanna,” he says, offering his hand to help me step down from the Bronco.
I ignore it—a big mistake, I realize, as I watch his jaw twitch—and hop out on my own.
“I don’t need a chaperone,” I mumble as I turn to grab my backpack and shrug it onto my shoulder. “It’s not my first time.”
“Never said you did, never said it was.”
“So, why are you coming in?”
He shuts the passenger door behind me and levels me with a look so quietly intense, so steady, it makes my already racing pulse stutter.
“Because you asked me to bring you here,” he says with the same infuriating level of calm. “To a place neither of us have been before, where you don’t know anyone. I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe and you’ve got everything you need.”
My stomach flips.
He says it like it’s obvious—like it’s a bare minimum courtesy. Not a single man—literally not one—has cared enough to protect me like this.
My dad got to the point where he cared more about drugs and music than anything going on at home, just around the time I started to need him. If he hadn’t been an addict, maybe things would’ve been different—but I’ll never get the chance to find out.
Grayson left home—and left me with it—and never looked back. Now he’s married to the most conceited woman alive and protects her over everything else.
No one has made room for me in their life—not until Brandon.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I murmur instinctively, giving him one more chance to bail.
“It’s not babysitting,” he says softly. “I want to be here. I want to make sure you’re good.”
God damn it.
He needs to stop talking like that.
He needs to stop saying things that feel like he’s reaching down my throat and putting a hand directly around my heart.
Before I can say anything else, he offers a small, crooked smirk and adds, “Unless you really do want me to leave.”
I freeze, because I should want that. I should keep my line—I’m a big girl, I can do this by myself.
When I open my mouth, though, what ends up coming out is, “No.”
“No?” he repeats, as if he’s not sure he heard my response correctly.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
The heat creeps up the back of my neck. I look down at my watch in an attempt to look anywhere but into his eyes. It’s almost nine—I don’t have time to debate this anymore.
“Do what you want, Brandon. I’m going inside.”
He bites the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to conceal a smile before placing his hand on the small of my back and leading me towards the door.
I walk ahead of him, trying—failing—not to be hyper-aware of the way his presence feels behind me. I like the way his hand feels on me, even though I know I shouldn’t—or can’t.
When we enter the lobby of the studio, everything is already in motion. Stylists run around pushing garment racks, assistants wrestle with light stands, and makeup artists are shouting about supply being low.
Brandon steps in a little closer behind me, his hand never leaving my back, and I hate to admit… I feel safer. More grounded. More like myself in a room where I’m about to turn into someone else.
An assistant with a headset approaches, and her eyes widen as she takes in my tattooed, broody bodyguard.
“Hi!” she almost squeaks before trailing her eyes back down to me. “You must be Miss Harris. We’re so excited you’re here.”
She beams at me, but it doesn’t take long for her gaze to move back to Brandon. “And… um… is this—?”
“I’m with her,” he says easily, like he’s said it a hundred times.
My heart drops into my stomach.
The assistant’s brow shoots up a little, because she’s thinking the exact same thing I am—men don’t say things like I’m with her unless they mean something.
Now everyone in this building thinks we’re together.
I open my mouth to explain that Brandon is just my brother’s best friend and bandmate. He’s only here to be friendly, but as his hand moves from my back to around my hip, my words tangle hopelessly in my throat.
Friendly, my ass.
The assistant nods with a small smile as she gestures for us to follow her.
“Right this way.”
She leads us through the wardrobe area, and Brandon keeps in step right next to me like he belongs here.
Like he belongs with me.
Before I have too much time to focus on it, I’m ushered into a chair under the brightest ring light I’ve ever seen. They could’ve put me underneath the sun and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
Brandon is put in a chair in the corner, further away from me than he’s been since we walked in, but I know he’s close by.
“Hi, beautiful,” the makeup artist says, spinning me gently away from Brandon to face her. “The editor is wanting soft glam for this cover. Fresh, glowy, effortless—and you’ve got it in spades.”
I nod, unsure of how to respond. I’ve never been good at taking compliments, especially in this world.
A hair stylist suddenly appears behind me and starts running her fingers through the dark hair she’s released from my hair tie on top of my head. “I think we’ll go for some natural, lived-in waves. Nothing too polished,” she hums thoughtfully.
The makeup artist starts blending foundation along my jawline, and my chest tightens knowing not only am I being watched by all these stylists, but he’s got his eyes on me, too.
He’s staring—and it’s obvious. It’s not judgmental. Not mocking. Not casual intrigue the way other men see models. It’s possessive. Protective. Something like pride.
I’m somehow more vulnerable than I’ve ever been—mid-transformation, exposed in a way no one who matters has ever seen before.
Did I just admit he matters?
The stylist tending to my hair pauses for a moment, glancing at Brandon in the mirror, and gives me a knowing smirk.
“Your boyfriend looks nervous,” she teases, low enough that only I can hear.
“He’s not my—” I start, but the words catch again.
I can’t say it, because it feels like a lie. The way he’s looking at me makes it one.
The makeup artist leans in now, brushing a shimmery shadow across my eyelid.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers with a little wink. “It happens all the time. Men fall apart the second they see their girl get in the glam chair for the first time.”
“I’m not his—” I try again, but her knowing grin cuts me off.
“You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
I force myself to breathe while she continues working as if she hadn’t said anything—applying concealer, blush, and highlighter.
I almost tell her the blush is unnecessary as I know my cheeks are already cherry fucking red as it is.
The hair stylist moves around us effortlessly, curling sections of my hair in practiced motions.
Watching them work calms me, and my heart rate finally falls to a normal level—but I can’t fully relax when I can still feel him.
My eyes meet his in the reflection again. He blinks at me, like he’s snapping out of a trance he didn’t mean to fall into. I see him looking me over, slowly, like he’s taking mental snapshots he’ll never admit to.
My breath catches, and my stylist notices.
“Look at him watching you,” she smirks. “Like a man possessed. It’s been awhile since we’ve had one of those in here.”
I don’t make eye contact with her.
I can’t.
Brandon’s gaze is burning through me like sunlight through glass, and I know she’s right. He shifts his weight in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest without ever breaking the connection.
Every time I think I’m imagining it—this thing between us—he does something like this and it makes me question everything I think I know. It scares the shit out of me, because I know now more than ever that this could be something real.
The makeup artist takes a step back.
“Done,” she announces.
The hair stylist finishes her last curl and runs her product-covered fingers through my locks one last time. “Perfection. You’re gorgeous, honey.”
They both step aside, revealing me to the mirror. For a moment, I barely recognize myself. My hair curls in soft waves around my face. My skin literally glows. My blue eyes are somehow sharper with just enough definition to make them look unreal.
The assistant returns and ushers me over to one of the oversized changing rooms. The wardrobe team has pulled together something I never would’ve chosen for myself—and honestly, that’s what makes it work so well.
The top is a strapless, slate-grey satin bodice with hand-stitched chiffon ruffles that ripple down like petals or waves.
The fabric catches the studio lights like liquid metal.
It’s not exactly subtle—but it’s still stunning, and fitted perfectly to my waist to the point that it looks molded to my skin.
The designer chose to pair it with high-waisted, tailored black trousers with clean lines and sharp pleats. They accent the drama of the top perfectly while accentuating the length of my legs, especially when paired with the classic black Louboutin pumps.
It’s minimal. Controlled. Elegant.
When I’m brought back to the studio and placed in front of the full-length mirror, I can’t even deny it.
I look… beautiful.
Then, I make the biggest mistake I possibly can.
I catch his eye through the mirror again, almost like I’m asking for his approval.
Brandon’s lips part slightly, like he just forgot how to breathe. When his eyes meet mine, even through the mirror, something electric snaps between us.
There’s no smile.
He doesn’t speak.
He just gives a quick nod, barely there—the approval I didn’t know I wanted.
I swear to God, no one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now.
Not at a shoot.
Not on a date.
Not ever.
He finally clears his throat, his voice a little rougher than usual.
“You look…” He stops, searching for the right word. “Incredible.”
Something about the way he says it—low and certain, like he’s stating a fact and not his opinion—gives me my confidence back.
Suddenly, I know I can do this.
I’m meant to do this.
The nerves don’t completely disappear, but they settle watching Brandon look at me like there’s not a single version of the world in which I don’t succeed.
The assistant appears again, clapping her hands and pulling me back to reality.
“Miss Harris? They’re ready for you!”
Brandon rises from his chair like instinct—like gravity is pulling him towards me. He places his hand on my elbow gingerly, and for the first time since we’ve arrived, I allow myself to look directly into his eyes rather than watching him through a mirror.
“Go knock their fucking socks off,” he murmurs.
My cheeks flush a brighter red than before, rendering the blush even more unnecessary. I swear, I’ve never wanted to impress someone so badly in my life.
With one last soft smile, I follow the assistant towards the bright lights, pulsating music, and complete chaos of the set… and the knowledge that Brandon Jackson is right behind me makes me feel unstoppable.