Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Something in my expression clearly gives me away because his mouth snaps shut and he gives me a long glare. “Bitch.”
I laugh then. “You’ll be fine, James. One week of naked football players parading in front of you and then it will all be a faint memory.”
“Who says I want it to be a memory?” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m going to enjoy this. And so should you.”
I hadn’t wanted to do this shoot. James and I are overworked at the moment, and I’ve been feeling the telltale dull pressure behind my eyes that signifies a cluster of migraines are headed my way.
I shouldn’t complain. Success has fallen into my lap these past few years. I’m a design major. Cyn, my college roommate, who now lives in New York, is a fashion major. I started doing photos for her fledgling collection, and people liked both of our work. Things took off from there, and I’m not looking back.
Were I not exhausted, I might be okay with reining in a bunch of overgrown, muscle-bound boys—because that’s how the male athletes I’ve worked with before usually behave. But now I don’t want to deal with any of it. I want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
Unfortunately, James, who also acts as my booking agent, insisted I take this job. It was for a good cause, rebuilding housing for flood victims not only in the area, but also in the greater US. And, because it would feature our city’s football heroes in the buff, it was guaranteed to be a big hit.
Besides, he had said over the phone last week, they want you. Your naked fisherman calendar impressed them.
I’m fairly certain the fact that the buff fishermen images went viral is what impressed them. But I found myself saying yes. Damn it all.
“It’s just a job, James,” I tell him now. Because, honestly, I don’t want to get excited over men I can’t have. Famous football players definitely fall into that category. I just want an honest working Joe with a clever mind and a talented tongue. A cute smile wouldn’t hurt, either. Is that too much to ask?
“Right,” James drawls. “And gelato is just another word for ice cream.”
I gasp. “You hush your mouth, mister.”
A faint, pounding noise catches my attention. James lurches up as if he’s been pinched. “Shit biscuits, they’re here!”
He stands there, flapping his hands for a minute, before stomping on his cigarette and giving me a panicked look.
I smile, though I feel the strain on my cheeks. “Bitch, be cool.”
“Huh. That was depressingly unhelpful.” A small pout pulls at his full beard.
“If it will make you feel better, I can oil them up.”
Outraged horror has his eyes going wide. “Take that from me, and I’ll salt your coffee for a week.”
“That’s just cruel!”
“Fair warning,” he says with a sniff.
“All right, all right.” I snicker and then get up. “I’ll get the door. If you go, we might never get started with all of your fawning.”
“Har.” He rolls his eyes, but then straightens his suit. “I’ll make some espresso. Do you think they drink espresso?”
James is addicted. The upside of this being that he makes killer coffee drinks. Every morning, I’m graced with a creamy café au lait. Every evening, a bittersweet macchiato.
“I honestly have no idea.” My knowledge of football players’ likes and dislikes is nil. “Maybe stick with water for now.”
“Chess, we can do better than that.” He pulls a tray of charcuterie from the fridge.
“Jesus, it’s a photoshoot, not a party.”
“Those two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”
“If you say so.” I leave him to fiddle with his tray. The stairwell to my loft is a vast echo chamber, and thus, before I’m halfway to the door, I can hear the guys clear as a bell.
“Maybe he’s on the can or something,” says a deep, snide voice.
“Great,” drawls another. “We’ve gotta wait for a shit? That could be half an hour at least.”
I slow my steps, fighting a laugh, and I hear a long-suffering sigh.
“Lord,” says a guy with a Southern drawl, “these boys keep leaving themselves wide-open for a smackdown. It’s almost too easy.”
I agree, but nearly jump out of my skin when someone starts pounding on the door hard enough that I fear it might fall from the hinges. Really, that’s just going too far.
“Dude!” shouts an irate male. “Nip it off and open up!”
Someone mutters about having some class, but I’m annoyed now and stride to the door, ready to remind my impatient guests of their manners.
I whip open the door and find four enormous guys staring back at me. Aside from their impressive size, they couldn’t be more different in appearance. The man-mountain directly in front of me, with his full beard, man bun, and tattoo sleeves, looks as if he’d be at home in the clubs I like to frequent. He also appears to be completely chagrined, which makes me think he was the one who’d been begging for the others to have some class.