Page 2 of The Hot Shot
A faint, pounding noise catches my attention. James lurches up as if he’s been pinched. “Shit biscuits, they’re here!”
He stands there, flapping his hands for a minute, before stomping on his cigarette and giving me a panicked look.
I smile, though I feel the strain on my cheeks. “Bitch, be cool.”
“Huh. That was depressingly unhelpful.” A small pout pulls at his full beard.
“If it will make you feel better, I can oil them up.”
Outraged horror has his eyes going wide. “Take that from me, and I’ll salt your coffee for a week.”
“That’s just cruel!”
“Fair warning,” he says with a sniff.
“All right, all right.” I snicker and then get up. “I’ll get the door. If you go, we might never get started with all of your fawning.”
“Har.” He rolls his eyes, but then straightens his suit. “I’ll make some espresso. Do you think they drink espresso?”
James is addicted. The upside of this being that he makes killer coffee drinks. Every morning, I’m graced with a creamy café au lait. Every evening, a bittersweet macchiato.
“I honestly have no idea.” My knowledge of football players’ likes and dislikes is nil. “Maybe stick with water for now.”
“Chess, we can do better than that.” He pulls a tray of charcuterie from the fridge.
“Jesus, it’s a photoshoot, not a party.”
“Those two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”
“If you say so.” I leave him to fiddle with his tray. The stairwell to my loft is a vast echo chamber, and thus, before I’m halfway to the door, I can hear the guys clear as a bell.
“Maybe he’s on the can or something,” says a deep, snide voice.
“Great,” drawls another. “We’ve gotta wait for a shit? That could be half an hour at least.”
I slow my steps, fighting a laugh, and I hear a long-suffering sigh.
“Lord,” says a guy with a Southern drawl, “these boys keep leaving themselves wide-open for a smackdown. It’s almost too easy.”
I agree, but nearly jump out of my skin when someone starts pounding on the door hard enough that I fear it might fall from the hinges. Really, that’s just going too far.
“Dude!” shouts an irate male. “Nip it off and open up!”
Someone mutters about having some class, but I’m annoyed now and stride to the door, ready to remind my impatient guests of their manners.
I whip open the door and find four enormous guys staring back at me. Aside from their impressive size, they couldn’t be more different in appearance. The man-mountain directly in front of me, with his full beard, man bun, and tattoo sleeves, looks as if he’d be at home in the clubs I like to frequent. He also appears to be completely chagrined, which makes me think he was the one who’d been begging for the others to have some class.
Next to him is a good-looking, lean guy with an amused smile. Short dreads spike up around his head like a crown of thorns. He’s shaking that head and giving the golden boy at his side a dry look. Golden boy is unrepentant in his glee, his light brown eyes shining with mischief.
They’re all handsome in their own way; excellent subjects for what we’re about to do.
But it is the guy behind them, looming in the backgroundwith a sour expression, who catches my eye and makes me pause. This guy is the cover model, with his blazing blue eyes and tanned skin. So gorgeous, he makes my teeth hurt. He’s looking down his perfect nose at me as if my presence offends him.
His face, I know well. From TV ads to billboards, I’ve seen him smiling back at me, trying to sell me athletic gear, health drinks, and even home mortgages. He’s the quarterback, the designated king of the football team, Finn Mannus or “Manny,” as the press dubs him. A strange nickname, since he’s so damn pretty.
He catches me looking and quirks a brow as if to say,Yes, I know. You want what I’m serving; everybody does.
Well, not me. I cut my gaze away and study my other clients. They all look back at me with various levels of expectation or impatience. Dominance and testosterone radiate from them like sunlight. If I give them an inch, they’ll take over this shoot. They probably wouldn’t even notice they were doing it; they’re clearly just that accustomed to taking charge.
