Page 96 of Loved By The Bad Boy

His fingers thread through his hair, and he tilts his head back to look at me. “I think I freaked you out.”

“A bit.” When he doesn’t say more, I add, “We will get married in the future. I want to marry you too.” His mouth opens, but he says nothing. I unfasten his seatbelt and climb on his lap. My thumb brushes the arc of his jaw, and his breath catches. “When we are both older and wiser and have jobs and our degrees. Until then, let’s just be Gracie and Benny. I will always love you.”

“Until then,” he whispers. I nod again. He palms my face, and I lean into his warm touch. “I love you too, Gracie.”

Forty

My palms sweat,and my temples pound. I can’t hear a word over the buzzing in my ears and constant chatter around me. Blurry images move in my periphery, and a figure drops to its knees before me. I shake out of my trance when familiar hands land on my knees and squeeze softly.

“Hey,” Ben says.

“Hey.” My voice comes out shakier than I want. I laugh, but he doesn’t. “Hi.”

Behind us, people move around, setting up the perfect backdrop for my photoshoot. I will flunk it. I know that. Who am I kidding? Modeling isn’t my thing. Who wants to see a skinny girl with patchy skin on their front screen? People love my acting only because my vitiligo is covered up.

“Stop it,” Ben murmurs.

“What?”

Blue eyes gaze up at me, brimming with confidence I don’t feel. I need it for this shoot.

“You are thinking terrible things about yourself.”

“I’m not,” I whisper. Ben quirks a brow, and my shoulders sag. “Maybe I am. I’m nervous.”

The murmurs around me worsen my anxiety. I chance a glance behind me and shivers race down the back of my legs. There’s a stool on the other end of the room and a fan blowing at its lowest. I guess it’s for my hair.

Someone rolls out a red rug. I suck in a breath as Ben cups my face, drawing my attention back to him. Why do they need it? I’m not walking. Thanks to my nerves, I can barely stand on my heels, and they want me to walk?

Ben’s lips graze mine. My brown eyes flit to his and hold. “I know you are nervous, but you don’t have to be.” He stretches his hands, and I place mine above his. He doesn’t mention my clammy palms or the way nervousness reeks off me. “I’m here, babe. You can do this, Gracie.”

I nod. I can do this.

Jon approaches us, and Ben stands. Jon is not a terrible person, but he’s my least favorite right now. This is his fault. “Ready?” he asks, sweeping his bangs off his forehead. I don’t think I am, but my head moves fast. “We will do a little walk first to get some shots before the main shoots.”

Keeping mute, I follow behind him. Ben tries to keep up as I’m pushed into the arms of someone else. The face is familiar, but I don’t remember her name. I’m wearing a robe that I’ll be required to take off when it’s time for the pictures. Since the focus is my vitiligo, the dress underneath is a bit revealing.

The makeup artist returns to dust the powder brush across my cheeks. If I weren’t so nervous, I might have appreciated his efforts. Ben gives me a thumbs up and continues typing on his phone. Who’s he texting? I plaster a fake smile on my lips as someone calls out familiar instructions to me.

Relax. Let go. Be yourself.

Jon returns with his camera hanging from his neck. I don’t know what that one is for since we already have a few set up. He collects a notepad from someone, sneaks a look at it, and nods.

“This will be fun, Tessa.”

It won’t. I should have agreed to have Mom here instead of Ben, or maybe ignored Jon and never said yes to this. This is about to go wrong. I shed off the robe, growing more anxious as different pairs of eyes turn to me. It’s a V-cut dress with a high slit to reveal the spots on my legs. One of the helps smiles at me. I think it’s a smile of pity. I don’t know. I’m overthinking everything.

Where’s Ben?

As if hearing my thoughts, he raises his hand. He’s so far away. And almost immediately, his attention returns to his phone.

“Have fun,” Jon says.

A knot shoots up from my chest to my throat. I rub my moist palms over my dress. I start at the end of the rug. The background is bland, so they can Photoshop whatever they want into it later. Per Jon’s instructions, I need to walk to the other end of the rug, twirl and flip my hair, or any other thing girls my age would do.

The only problem with that is simple. The girls my age I know dye their hair a different color almost every two weeks, chew gums loudly and obnoxiously, and sing in their croaky frog voices. They don’t attend shoots. Well, except for Maria. But she’s a superstar and enjoys it.

Pushing those thoughts out of my mind, I stand straighter, the stilettos on my feet adding more inches to my height. Jon shakes his head.

---