Page 34 of Body Check

If my mom witnessed that confession on TV, she’d fly to Boston, thwack me with her slipper, and then drag my ass back to Texas, kicking and screaming the whole way. If there is any luck in the world, she’d bring her best friend Honey, and Honey would at least laugh about it with me on the flight—even while my dear mother prayed for my soul.

Holly bends over, tucking the camera back into her backpack, flashing me her round ass—and I cut my gaze to the ceiling.

Don’t look. She’s not yours. Don’t you dare—

I look, like a starved man who’s been hooked on the same diet for over a decade.

A diet that I’ve refused to give up even though my sex life with Holly dried up years ago.

Before I’m aware of speaking, I hear the rasp in my voice when I say, “Can I ask you something?”

Still bent over, still testing the limits of my control, Holly glances back at me, her ponytail swinging down to point at the floor. “Sure?”

I clear my throat. Swipe my clammy hands against my sweats. “You were done for the evenin’ and you still came over to me. Why?”

She drops to her haunches, knees cracking the way they’ve always done after an early career in gymnastics and dance, before meeting my gaze head-on.

Hell, her eyes are so blue.It seems incredible that it feels like I’m seeing them now for the very first time, noting their exact hue: a dark navy rim, a brighter, more cerulean center. My dick stiffens in my pants, and I ignore the bastard like he’s a traitor on the verge of mutiny.

“Holls?”

She doesn’t smile this time, as sober as I’ve quite literally been for almost a year, and then tears my heart in two with only four words: “You looked so alone.”

13

Holly

“Who made the jalapeño poppers?”

At Carmen’s question, I lift my glass of merlot in salutation. “You’re looking at her,” I say with a grin, plucking one off the tray on the table before us. Cheesy goodness oozes from the hot pepper (sans seeds, of course), and with a toast to Carmen, I pop it into my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut in culinary bliss. “Oh, man, perfect amount of cream—”

“You think that’s her O face?” Shelby, my assistant, asks the room.

My eyes fly open. “Shelby.”

She blinks back at me. “What? Like we weren’t all already thinking it with you moaning like that over there.”

Bywe, she means all ten staffers of Carter Photography. In honor ofGetting Pucked’s two-hour season premiere tonight, I decided to host a watch-party in our office. And I’ve brought all of the necessary supplies to keep us entertained: appetizers, pizza, wine and beer, dessert.

And, apparently, the O face.

Cue: instant mortification.

In my defense, I’m a total foodie. I’d eat my way through a city if given the opportunity. If it weren’t for finding my calling with photography, I’d have dug straight into the cooking world.

Cooking—not baking—feeds my soul. Literally.

Downing a gulp of wine, I mutter, “How about we act like we’re professionals? No talking about orgasms.”

Shelby trades a glance with Carmen. “We’re off the clock, which means that orgasms can be on the table.”

God, not this conversation again. Since my divorce, Shelby has made it her mission—in between auditions for whatever latest show she wants a role in—to get me a man. Anewman. Really, any man that isn’t Jackson Carter. The fact that I’m not interested in dating? Not a problem, the way she sees it. In her mind, I’m sure, I’m just ready to be plucked up by the next eligible Boston bachelor.

I glance up at the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, wishing that the show would start so I can avoid this conversation once again. When the commercial cuts to yet another commercial, I accept temporary defeat with another pull of my wine. “I don’t think Adam wants to listen to us talk about orgasms.”

Naturally, my sound guy only offers a shrug that’s both bashful and ambivalent. “You could talk about whatever you wanted—I’m still riding on the high of my wife giving birth.”

“Perfect!” Shelby exclaims, clapping her hands together. “Orgasms it is!” She leans forward in her chair, then drops her elbows on the oak table that stretches nearly the length of the conference room. Brown hair hanging in wavy curls, she tucks the strands behind her ears and resumes her position.

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