Page 19 of Riggs
Riggs’s throat works. He stands up straighter without moving. “Vanessa,” he says, my name a low rasp that does not belong in a workplace. Heat curls low in my belly.
“Professional feedback?” I ask, because if I don’t keep it light I will step straight into him and forget the cameras exist.
“Professional feedback,” he says, steadying. “Your hem will catch if you move too fast. And people will stop thinking. Plan accordingly.”
I grin, savoring the way his restraint frays at the edges when he looks at me like that. “Copy.”
Look three is the gold lamé slip. I step into it and swear under my breath because it feels like warm light. The mirror says: dangerous. The mirror also says: worth it.
I step out. The room exhales. Riggs goes very still.
“Absolutely not,” he says.
My mouth drops. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flick to the front window, and then back at me. “You can’t wear that for the world to see.”
I smile, and am digging the protective vibe, but I won’t letanyman tell me what I can or can not wear. Even if every reckless bone in me wants to swing a leg over him like a rookie cowgirl at her first rodeo. “I’m a master at angles. They won’t see all of me, but thank you for looking out.”
He growls. Like a literal growl just escaped him.
I laugh, and I feel ridiculously turned on by the fact that he’s acting this way.
“Back room,” he says. “You should do this where there’s less eyes.” He glances around the shop, and Elodie nods.
“He’s right. We have a back storage room.”
In the storage room, the light is softer. Someone leans a painting against the wall, and the coloring does wonders with the gold. Brice sets up a handheld, and Lina checks my hair. Riggs stands in the doorway, eyes on fire.
The microphone’s cord snags on the nearly invisible strap. “I got it,” I say, twisting to reach. I don’t, not in this dress.
A large, warm hand appears. “I got this” he says.
He steps close, careful as a prayer, and lifts the cord free. His knuckles brush against my bare spine as my breath stumbles. The air between us contracts to inches. I feel the heat off him, the restraint. He leans back, fingers ghosting down once more to make sure no fabric is caught, and steps away like it cost him.
“You’re doing great,” he says, voice not entirely steady.
“Professional feedback duly noted,” I manage, and Elodie pretends to be fascinated by her pins, mouth twitching.
We film. It’s romantic—slow pans, a laugh over my shoulder, a close-up of fabric sliding like sunlight. Riggs is a wall at the door. I never have to look to know where he is. It makes me feel safe.
Look four is a navy suit tailored within a millimeter of indecent. I step out, jacket unbuttoned, bralette peeking, pants breaking just right over strappy heels, and watch Riggs’s eyes go fromassettowomanand back like he’s forcing himself. He drops his gaze to my shoes, inhales, and says, “Wow.”
Elodie smiles and says, “I love a boyfriend with good taste.”
It’s pride that takes over my face. I love hearing Riggs being calledmy boyfriend.
“He has the best,” I say, and Riggs just grunts in response and Elodie and I laugh.
We leave the storage area and return to the store. We’re down to the last look—white silk, bias cut, the idea of a dress more than a dress itself. Riggs eyes drag over my body leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s almost like his eyes burn right through me, and then he switches to professional mode. He taps his earpiece, and his face turns stoic.
“Copy,” he says, and shifts to block me from the window. “Curtains.”
“Everything okay?”
Lina whisks them closed. The boutique becomes a small, safe world. The note from yesterday flutters at the edge of my mind and then quiets, because whatever waits outside is going to have to go throughhim.
Riggs nods once. “Everything’s fine.”
