Page 43 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
I glance at Quinn, half expecting her to jump in and protest. She doesn’t. She just folds her arms across her chest, chin tipped high, pretending she’s completely unfazed.
“Shirt off,” I repeat, slow drawl thick on purpose. “What if I’m shy?”
“Beckett!” she snaps, but the little twitch at her mouth gives her away. She’s trying not to laugh.
I tug my T-shirt over my head, toss it at her, and her eyes do a traitorous flick—one quick sweep over my chest, shoulders, and stomach. I catch it. She’s enjoying this.
The photographer thrusts a rope into my hand. “Hold it like you’re about to lasso the camera. Yes, perfect. Tilt your chin up. Great, now flex.”
I snort, but I play along, rolling my shoulders, rope looped in one hand. The lights are hot, the oil gleams on the other guys, and for the first time, I start to feel the ridiculous fun of it. Half-naked in front of strangers, sure, but it’s all in the name of the cause. And judging by the way Quinn’s pretending not to look at me, I might just milk this.
“You’re staring,” I murmur under my breath, keeping my face angled toward the camera.
“I am not,” she hisses back, cheeks coloring.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been staring since the shirt came off. Want me to flex slower so you don’t miss anything?” I curl the rope over my shoulder, dragging it across my bare skin just to watch her squirm.
“God, you’re insufferable.” She fumbles with her clipboard, refusing to meet my eyes.
The photographer claps. “Yes, that’s it! The smirk! Keep it—perfect cowboy arrogance.”
I grin wider. Cowboy arrogance? That’s just me being me.
The flash pops again as I keep giving the camera what they keep calling “brooding cowboy.” Feels ridiculous, but the reaction sure isn’t.
A cluster of makeup girls has formed just off set, whispering behind their hands. One of them actually fans herself with the cue cards, bold as anything. Another leans to her friend and mouths “holy shit.”
Their eyes track me around the room. Which, yeah, I’m used to attention, but today it’s different.
Because Quinn is watching them watch me.
She’s standing stiff by the backdrop, clipboard clutched tightly against her chest. Her lips purse tighter each time one of thewomen giggles. Her eyes do this little cut sideways, sharp as barbed wire, and she presses her mouth into a flat line.
This is so much fun.
I roll my shoulders slowly, giving them a good show, partly because the photographer’s shouting for it, but mostly because I can feel Quinn’s simmer from here.
“You think they’re impressed?” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear when I step closer between shots.
She snaps her eyes to me, all fire and daggers. “I think you’re enjoying yourself way too much.”
“Oh, I am.” I let my grin tilt lazy, rope still in my hands. “But not because of them.”
Her throat works, but she doesn’t answer. Just glares harder, as if that’ll shut me up.
One of the assistants dares to call out, “Looking good, Beck!”
Quinn’s jaw ticks. And damn, it’s settled—I like jealous Quinn. A lot.
“Alright, cowboy,” the photographer claps his hands, waving toward the light rig. “We need a little shine. Someone get the oil.”
Two assistants rush forward with a bottle, eager, one of them already twisting off the cap. Before they can touch me, I lift a hand. “She’ll do it.”
Every head swivels to the one I’m talking about.
Quinn blinks, pointing at herself. “Me?”
“Yeah.” My grin’s slow, deliberate. “You.”
