Page 82 of Sycamore Circle

After using the facilities, he checked his phone, frowned when he saw a text from Joy, then exhaled when all she’d written was that she was home and there weren’t any weird letters in her mailbox. Something deep inside of him seemed to settle into place at long last. She was all right. He texted her back, relayed that he was still in a meeting, and then tossed the phone onto the pile of his personal belongings.

When he walked into wardrobe, Adele was steaming a shirt.

“Where to next?” he asked.

“L. Want any help?”

He grinned. “Not yet.” The first time he’d been hired to be the main model of Renegade’s sportswear catalog, he’d been surprised when Adele had asked him to undress down to his underwear. He’d never been shy—and he’d lost any traces of modesty while in prison—so he hadn’t been embarrassed to take off his clothes. However, being told by a young gal to strip had taken him aback.

But not as much as when she’d walked to his side and asked if he needed help getting dressed. Once he’d realized she was serious, he’d said the first thing he could think of—not yet.

Which had become something of a running joke for the two of them.

Walking over to ‘L,’ he shucked off his clothes and put on the pair of cargo shorts and T-shirt. When the T-shirt practically felt like the seams were going to pull apart, he called out, “Hey Adele, something’s up with this shirt.”

“Hmm?” She walked over to his side, looking him over as she did so. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at it. Don’t you think it’s too tight?”

She grinned. “No.”

“Come on. Really?” He’d long ago given up having an opinion about the clothes they put him in, but this felt painted on.

She lowered her voice. “Don’t freak out, but you’re getting a bit of a following. Winter heard that people are ordering the catalog just to get more pictures of you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Sorry, but it’s true. Someone in marketing predicted that you’re one of the reasons sales are up. So... one of the owners asked if we could stick you in a few more shirts that didn’t hide too much.”

“As in nothing?”

“Hey, I just work here. You could complain...”

“I’m not going to.” He got paid too much for a couple of hours of standing around and looking “pensive” for that. “At least I have on clothes, right?”

She giggled. “Don’t jinx it. Next thing you know, you’ll only be wearing a pair of swim trunks or something.”

He laughed as she walked around him, pulling on the fabric and smoothing out one of the pockets of his shorts. “Where are the shoes?”

“No shoes. Bare feet.”

“Really?”

“We have a set with sand. We’re getting fancy around here.”

“Let’s go!” Winter called out.

Adele sighed as she walked toward the set. “Come on, Bo. We don’t want Winter to get in a snit.”

Since Bo didn’t disagree, he followed on her heels.

Sure enough, Winter situated him on a pile of sand, even going so far as to spray some water on his legs so some of the sand would stick to his skin. After a good ten minutes, he was posed and Winter was taking pictures again.

“Smile a little, Bo. No. Less. Like you’ve got a secret.”

He toned it down, thinking that it wasn’t a lie. He had a couple at the moment—not only was he not happy that he was going to have sand stuck to his legs all evening, but he had another secret about a certain woman with brown hair, kind brown eyes, and who likely couldn’t care less about what he looked like.

“Davis, come spray some water on his arms. Bo, act like you’re going to take the shirt off.”

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