3. Wiley
THREE
Wiley
Crap, crap, crap, crap. Crap!
You wanted this job, Wiley. Don’t complain now .
Watching the photographer direct Asher Scott across the set, telling him to open his jacket and lean back on the desk. I just about spit my water out. I’ve seen the man play. The speed and skill he has on the field—intense. In person…oh lord, he is spectacular, and oh so cocky. Apparently, it’s a red flag I’m into.
“That’s it, just tilt your head a little more…yes perfect.”
The smoulder emanating from him is enough to start a fire. If that were the case, I’m wet enough to put it out.
“Get yourself together, girl. You did not take this job to snag yourself a man,” I mutter to myself. Though if I were, he’d be the only one I’d want.
“Makeup,” the photographer calls, and I blow out a steadying breath and walk over. “More bronzer…down here.”
He waves his hand in the general area he wants and I almost swallow my tongue. Stepping up onto the set, selecting my fluffiest brush, I dab it gently into the bronzer. “Try not to move, I don’t want to get this on the pants.”
“I can try,” he says as I shift closer, running the brush along the line of abs, and the delicious V that I have no idea what it’s called, but I want to lick. “You make it hard, though.”
I’m so close to him now that his breath disturbs the curls that have come loose from my braid and I can’t stop myself from staring at the fucking anaconda trapped against his thigh.
“Are you saying I make you uncomfortable?” I manage, torn between rushing through this and lingering longer than I know is necessary.
“These pants are uncomfortable,” he laughs, our eyes meeting as I decide on professionalism and take a step back, so it appears like I’m viewing my work. “You are definitely not making me uncomfortable. Well, not totally.”
“That sounds like an oxymoron, Mr Scott.” The feel of my lips tugging up on one side as his eyes dart between his pants and my face.
“Does it though?” A slow smile slides across his mouth, my breath stalling and my mind misfiring.
Kiss me. Please dear god, kiss me.
“Are you done?”
“Huh? Oh yeah,” I mumble, my face a burning inferno as I step off the set.
“Now, Mr Scott. Let’s get that jacket off.”
Murder. Me. Now.
After eighteen hours on my feet, I finally make it home and don’t even take my shoes off as I flop, face first, onto my bed. I’m dead tired and yet the sleep I so dearly want eludes me in favour of visions of Asher Scott.
The pocket of my pants starts to vibrate, my phone digging uncomfortably into my hip, and I groan. “Who the hell is calling at this hour?”
I’ve always been of the opinion, calls that come late at night bring news, and not always the good kind. Struggling to pull my phone out, I bring it up to my ear. “Hello?”
It comes out all nasally as my face is still pressed into the bed. No matter if this is good news or bad, I can’t stop how tired I am.
“Finally!” the familiar voice of my best friend, Ines, exhales, her flustered tone one I know well. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours.”
“I just got in,” I drawl, dragging my body across the bed to lay on my back.
“Seriously? You’ve been gone since five a.m.” The sound of Ines pacing in her sparse apartment echoes down the phone, and I can just see her waving her hand in the air with exasperation.
“That’s what happens when you want to do a fifty-person photoshoot all in one day, Ines.” Admittedly, even I didn’t think we’d be there that long. I mean, they’re sports men and women; who knew some of them would be so pretentious and picky.
“I’m sorry. If I’d known the job was going to take so long, I never would have put you up for it, Wiles,” she apologises, but I’m not sure why.
“Ines, I wanted this job. I don’t know why you’re feeling…so…bad,” I say through my yawn.
“Honey, I don’t want to see my bestie working herself to the point of exhaustion.”
“Not all of us have a Sugar Daddy willing to pay for everything, bestie .” I love Ines; we’ve been friends since the first grade—my god we’ve been friends for a long time—but she grew up in wealth and affluence, and though she’s always offered to help me out, hard work isn’t a concept she’s overly familiar with.
“Simon and I aren’t seeing each other anymore,” comes her subdued reply.
“I…I’m sorry, Ines. I know you really liked Simon.” Ines hasn’t been serious about much in her life, flitting from one fad to the next, but Simon was different. She mightn’t admit it, but I can tell.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s his loss. I didn’t call about…him. I called about the super sexy hottie you posted on your insta. Are you holding out on me ?”
I knew when I took that photo and posted it, she’d jump on it. I also know pushing her about Simon won’t yield any answers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Toeing my shoes off, I put my phone on speaker and strip off my jacket and pants, dumping them on the floor while Ines tuts at me. “I am not some noob who will give up that easily.”
“Never said you were,” I say through a stretch, wanting to curl up under the covers for days, but getting a whiff of myself puts paid to that. “Ugh.”
“Ugh? What’s ugh?”
“Not you,” I sigh, trudging across the hall to the bathroom.
“Good. Now did you get super sexy hottie’s number?”
“What are the chances that if I hang up, you’ll let this go?” There is absolutely zero chance, I know it, but this isn’t a subject I want to talk about. Especially not when there’s every possibility Ines is onto her second bottle of chardonnay.
“None! Now spill.” And I can just see the ear-to-ear grin she’s wearing as she tucks herself into the corner or her ridiculously comfy lounge.
“There’s nothing to spill.” I shake my head as I stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder if I looked this bad in front of Asher. Those bags under my eyes are enough for a family of five on a three-week vacation.
“Please! You never post photos of guys, with tags like that, on your business socials. Be a pal, and just spill it. You know I’m not going to let it go until you do, so save yourself the hassle and tell me.”
“Fine!” I groan, shutting the toilet seat lid and flopping down on it. “There isn’t much to tell, really. He’s so out of my league, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“So, when you say league is that a pun, because from where I’m sitting, he might be a SSH…”
“A what?” I cut her off.
“A super. Sexy. Hottie. SSH,” she huffs and I offer her a derisive snort. “No. Don’t you dare, Wiley. You are a fucking gorgeous woman, with tits for days and an ass that’s begging to be spanked. Oh, my god. That’s it.”
“Wait. What’s it, Ines? I know that tone. What crazy-ass thing are you trying to sign me up for now?” Sometimes I wonder what goes on in her head, the crazy shit she comes up with, and I’m the one who usually gets caught in the middle of it.
“You need to get laid.”
“I most certainly do not!” Well, I probably do, but on my own terms. I doubt my about-to-die-from-over-use magic wand isn’t going to cut it tonight after being in Asher’s intoxicating presence. The idea of him bending me over…nope. Nope, not going there. “No, Ines.”
“Yes, you do! How long’s it been? A year?”
“No, it has not been a…” Holy shit! It has been a year, longer even since the last time I had an actual man in my bed.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she gloats, and the memory of Steve and his slobbering tongue kicks in. He wasn’t the worst guy I’ve ever been with, but I’d hate for him to be my last.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not getting laid by the SSH, or anyone else for that matter,” I add hastily, imagining Ines opening up her contacts and scrolling through all the single men she knows.
“Then reach out and get SSH’s number or I’m going to make sure…”
“I’m not going to reach out and get the phone number of one of the most famous wingers in the game of rugby league today. Not to mention the hottest guy I have ever laid eyes on.” I’m not. Even if I die of blue bean. Even if it’s something I’ll regret—forever.