Page 42 of Charming Like Us
I look Jack over as he shifts his stance, more closed off to her. He tucks a water bottle under his armpit and uncaps the other. “I know him. Oscar is one of the best bodyguards in the entire fleet, but he’s on-duty—”
“Oh, I’ll be out of his hair in, like, a couple of seconds tops.” To me, she asks, “Think we could meet up later tonight?”
Jack chokes down water.
Now I’d bet a hundred bucks on it.
Before I can answer, Jack smoothly interjects, “We’re busy, actually. We have a shoot tonight.” He gestures to his camera and tries to fake a smile. My attraction hikes up when his fake smile comes out as a heated glare.
Christ, Highland.
She bristles and turns her back on him.
Even if I bet a grand on his jealousy, it doesn’t matter. I have a job to do, and it’s not thinking about fucking Jack.
I keep focus on Charlie. He’s still staring up at the sculpture.
“So…” Everly surveys my six-foot-two build. “About your number…?
“Yeah, sure.” I spout off my number but change the last digit. It’s a dick move, but I’m not in the mood to reject her in front of Jack.
I’ve felt what it’s like to be rejected, and I would’ve died if I had an audience when it happened.
After saving my number in her phone, she politely says, “It was nice to meet you.” Ignoring Jack, she skirts off.
Leaving me and him closer together. “A shoot tonight?” I question. “I didn’t think you were filming, Highland. It’s just prep.”
“It is,” he says more coolly. “I just thought you needed a wingman.” He hands me a water, the tension clear in his flexed biceps. “It’s not a big deal.”
Then why do you look so nervous?
I almost say that back, but instead, I go with, “I don’t know what your friends taught you in California, bro, but wingmen don’t run off potential hookups.” I touch my ear, but I remember I have no radio in Paris.
“She didn’t look like your type,” Jack says with the rake of his hand through his dark hair. His eyes sink into me, and my defenses rocket through the stratosphere.
“No offense, Long Beach, but I don’t think you know what my type is.”
His lips rise in a smile synonymous with a slow stroke of a cock. “Are you sure it’s not me?” He’s searching my gaze.
I think of all the ways I could shut him down:
It’s never been you.
My type is the opposite of you, Jack.
I wouldn’t fuck you if you were my last option.
Those ideas pulverize my insides. Hurting him isn’t on my agenda. Nowhere near, and so I tip my head back to him and say, “Are you sure I’m notyourtype?”
Mic drop.
Too much passes through his face, and I can’t stare. My eyes snap towards a tour group.Shit.
The noisy students head towards the Winged Victory of Samothrace sculpture. I’ve memorized the entire tour schedules, and I know they’re early. The moment I step towards my client, he ducks behind a burly man wearing a University of Alabama sweatshirt.
Jack follows close behind as I weave between bodies.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, pushing past someone with a sopping wet raincoat. “Excusez-moi.” A little girl, no older than five, runs out right in front of me. Elbowing my shins. Jack grabs my arm before I trip over her like she’s a lawn gnome.
