Page 6 of Shes my 1 Try

Stifling the protest I want to make, I slide my arms into the jacket and keep my mouth shut as he adjusts it, humming as he walks around me. “This colour is so you. Just a dusting of bronzer and you’ll be ready to go.”

“Oh no, I don’t need any more makeup.” I shake my head as a pair of shoes are shoved at me. The last thing I need is to get another hard on, especially in these pants.

“Honey, I have seen a lot of bodies today, and yours is easily a top ten for me. With a few brushes of bronzer to set off these delicious abs,” his fingers trace over them, forcing them to contract. “You’ll be top five in a flash. Besides, I doubt miss thang over there is gonna mind.”

I turn to where he’s jerked his head and sure enough, there she is, waiting.

“Oh lord, the chemistry,” he hums close to my ear as he drags me by the jacket back towards the photoshoot set, shoving me forward. “Bronze him up, dollface.”

I manage to skid to a halt before I run into her, but want to step closer as she eyes me up and down hungrily. This photoshoot is gonna be hard—in more ways than one.

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?”

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