Page 10 of The Girlfriend Zone

“Why don’t we try with clothes on?” I say, because that feels a little safer.

He nods easily. “Whatever you want.”

It feels like he means that—on a deep and real level. Like this man wants to give me my wishes and dreams.

But really, it’s best I focus those on photography so I don’t get carried away.

I mentally cycle through the poses I had planned for Katrina. I know exactly which ones I want to start with. I’ve been dying to try these out.

First, I turn on a playlist from my phone, letting it pipe into a portable speaker. I don’t mind the quiet, but music helps nearly everyone relax during a shoot, mostly so they aren’t simply hearing the echo of their own thoughts. Plus, I’m used to the faint background tunes as I work. Once a soft, sultry tune drifts around the studio, I point to the bed, nerves buzzing through me even as I take control.

“Lie down. Unbutton your shirt.” That’s exactly what I’d say to him if Katrina were here posing too. But she’s not here, so the command feels entirely personal.

Like it’s me giving it to the man I flirted with at the coffee shop, rather than the photographer to the model.

I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

Or just…reality today.

I expect him to strip as he walks over to the bed a few feet away, but instead, he watches me, tilting his head to the side, then slowly undoes his buttons, one by one, until his shirt falls open, revealing strong pecs that taper intostronger abs. A smattering of dark chest hair draws my eyes, especially as it trails down his abs and disappears into his jeans.

I’ve photographed countless bodies before. I know how to admire form without letting it get to me. But this feels different—it feels personal. His casual confidence makes me want to drop my defenses, and that scares me. It’s not just his body—it’s the way he carries himself. It’s like he’s daring me to trust him.

Pretty sure he’s also daring me to look at him, so I indulge in the offered view. I’m tempted to comment on his six-pack—heck, it’s even an eight-pack. To say,“Who knew carting a few dozen heads of cabbage could shape abs like that?”

But Birdie said not to mention what he does for a living. So I don’t. He’s probably an Internet chef or something. I don’t even ask his last name.

All I know is Miles The Hot Chef is a man unfazed by partial nudity. A man who knows what he brings to the table. “Will this do?” he asks with confidence and certainty. I’m not used to men who speak like this. The guys I dated in college and since I graduated last year always seem like they’re either trying too hard or running away when they learn I’m, well,complicated.

He seems so comfortable, as if he’s done this a hundred times. But there’s something in the way his eyes follow me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s offering himself up but also watching me closely to see if I’ll accept.

“That’ll do,” I say, trying to stay composed even as heat races through me.

He undoes his boots and takes off his socks, then his watch too, setting it down on a table. He heads to the bedand there, he stretches out on it, not needing instructions. It’s like he knows exactly how I want him to look. He parks his hands behind his head, stretches out his long legs. He’s relaxed but poised. “You said I should look like I want her, right?”

I swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly dry. “Yes. Please. That would be great.”

“Good, because I should really look that way right now,” he says, in a faint voice, but still I can make it out.

My heart is beating so fast, I swear he can hear it.

I really need to concentrate on the task at hand, not on the way he makes me feel. The way he watches me too. While I know guys my age can and do wear glasses, there’s something about them that makes a man seem…more mature. Like, he’s settled into who he is. Or maybe that’s how Miles comes across.

Tearing my gaze away from him, I ensure the composition is just how I want it, with both of us in the frame even though we won’t be touching. I adjust the focus so the camera will follow him if he moves, then grab the tiny remote I can use to trigger the shutter. With that in my hand and everything ready, I move to the plush red chair and sit down, drawing a deep, steadying breath.

“Just watch me,” I tell him, but that feels redundant since he’s done nothing else since he started taking his clothes off.

“Easy enough,” he says.

I lean back, letting my hair fall down my spine, pushing my chest up, my legs stretched out in front of me—a classic pose that any good dancer knows how to use. The kind that comes in quite handy in boudoir.

But this pose doesn’t feel like it has before when I’ve snapped self-portraits. Nor does it feel like it has the timeswhen I’ve shot couples where he’s mere inches from her, about to touch her. The small space between us makes me feel watched in a whole new way. I feel admired. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Miles is staring like he can’t look away. I trigger the shutter, and then there’s a click, then the flash.

I slide my hand into my hair on the right side—the side he can’t see right now.

Another press. Another click.

I move my hand down my chest.

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