Chapter 20 – Josie
chapter
twenty
Josie
We hadn’t talked about the kiss.
Between that and what Kimmy and Lena had said about Marcus, I hadn’t stopped thinking about Waylon.
And now you need to see him and not drool.
Gods.
Being a professional was a lot harder when I kept picturing my project partner shirtless.
Aren’t you two supposed to be friends?
Yes. Which was why I needed to be professional. Waylon was my friend.
The athletic media office smelled like new carpet and paint.
Somebody had arranged branded backdrops along the far wall, three different Loveland logo configurations, and the lighting rig took up half the room.
I’d arrived before anyone else with the shot list printed and annotated.
The content calendar was mapped out in our shared drive, and the posting schedule was locked.
I was prepared, organized, and in complete control of our project.
You’ve got this.
When Waylon walked in wearing a team hoodie, bag over one shoulder, hair looking like somebody had already spent the morning pulling on it, I couldn’t think straight.
Ugh. No. I had to focus.
Be cool. You are at work. This is your project. He is the talent, and you are the producer, and that is the end of it.
“Thor.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. I was going to be professional. We had been developing this content campaign for a couple of weeks, and we were going to execute it like someone who had not recently had this man’s tongue in her mouth.
“Flash.” He said it the same way, matching my energy, except his voice had that low tone that told me he knew exactly what I was doing and found it entertaining.
The marketing people descended on him like he was a very large, very reluctant prize. Craft services had laid out some snacks, which Waylon went to first. Wow. All of this for him? It looked like enough to feed a full village.
When Aldridge said we’d have athletic department support and a budget, I just assumed a fruit tray or two and good equipment.
“He’s the talent,” the marketing coordinator, Seth, explained to me. “We always feed the talent.”
Waylon stood in the middle of all of it, looking deeply unimpressed. “Did you eat before you came, Flash?”
“I grabbed an egg and a banana.”
His brows furrowed. “That’s not enough.” Then he placed a bag heavy with food beside me. “Eat some of this.”
“You’re a hockey player. Aren’t you a bottomless pit?” I said, my mouth twitching. I turned back to my laptop before anyone could see it.
Focus. Shot list. Angles. Content pillars. Do not think about the way he said, “Honey, you kissed me,” on the trail yesterday.
“The food’s for you.”
I hadn’t heard him cross the room. He was just there, a few feet away, arms loose at his sides, watching me the way he did, like he was reading me instead of just looking at me.
“But—”
“I already ate.” He set his mouth in a firm line.
“Nobody got you food. So I gave you half of mine.”
Well, shit.
I stared at him. Then at the bag. Then at him again.
Do not make a big deal out of this. Do not.
“Waylon, I can’t take your food.”
“Half.” He leaned against the edge of the neighboring desk with his arms crossed, patient as anything. “I have the rest.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Eat, Flash.” His voice dropped, still quiet and even, but with an edge to it that made me go still. “I’m not eating until you do.”
I glared at him. He just glowered back.
“You are so damn stubborn. I told you—”
He shut me up by shoving a croissant in my mouth.
“I’d love to hear you go on, Flash, but food first. It’s going to be a long day.”
Marcus had texted that he’d bring me food and then forgot. Waylon hadn’t said a word. He’d just divided his plate and put half on my desk before I’d noticed my own stomach growling.
Don’t you dare cry over a breakfast sandwich, Josie.
I pulled the bag toward me. Unwrapped the sandwich. Egg and cheese, something with spinach, warm bread that had held its heat. I took a bite.
He unfolded from the desk and went back to his station, picking up his own half from the napkin he’d left it on, eating standing up, facing the branded backdrop.
Nobody in this room knew what had happened in that tutoring center.
Nobody knew about the trail or the hat or the kiss or the way he’d said, “I know I should be sorry, but I’m not,” in my doorway while rain ran down his jaw.
To everyone else, he was just the talent eating breakfast. To me, he was the guy who’d noticed I hadn’t eaten and fixed it without being asked.
I ate every damn bite. And funny enough, my mood improved once I was fed.
The shoot ran three hours. I directed angles, adjusted lighting, managed Seth, and ran Waylon through interview prompts for the behind-the-scenes content.
I was good at this. I knew I was good at this.
And having him in front of my camera, following my direction, sitting where I told him to sit and looking where I told him to look, made me feel a whole different kind of heat.
Ugh. I was not going to think about that.
He followed every direction without complaint.
And actually, he was easy on camera, natural, funnier than the prompts deserved.
When I told him to relax his shoulders, he did.
When I told him the light was catching his eyes wrong and he needed to angle his chin, he did, and said, “Better?” with that low voice and those green eyes pointed directly at me through the lens, and I nearly dropped the camera.
Professional. You are a professional.
When the shoot wrapped, I was packing my laptop when he appeared at my station to return my lens cap, which had rolled under his setup.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yeah.”
He picked up his bag. I picked up mine. We walked toward the door at the same time, and our shoulders nearly touched in the doorway, and neither of us moved to make room.
“Good shoot,” he said.
“You were easy to work with.”
“I’m easy in general,” he added with a wink.
“That is not what I said.”
He grinned, slow and shameless, dimples winking. “You were thinking it. Besides, we do shoots all the time. Though none of the photographers are as easy on the eyes as you are.”
“I was absolutely not thinking it.” I was definitely thinking about the other comment.
“Flash.”
“Later, Waylon.”
I walked out of the media office and down the hall, and I didn’t look back because looking back was a habit I was trying to break, and also because if I turned around and he was standing there with that grin, I was going to do something I couldn’t blame on a thunderstorm.
My phone buzzed.
Marcus: Shit, I forgot about this morning. Make it up to you later. Good luck
I stared at the text.
We still hadn’t talked since the other night.
He was another problem to solve, and I’d deal with him later.
Later has to come eventually.