Page 97 of Loved By The Bad Boy

“You are too stiff,” someone says.

“Relax,” another one says.

The photographer rolls his camera back. I take my first step, and the force of the wind nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s the fan. It’s supposed to help with the flowing hair aesthetic, but it’s affecting my walk.

“Don’t look at the camera,” a voice adds.

Right. Unaware.

Begging my feet to move, I put one leg in front of the other like the instructors and Maria spent days showing me. We practiced some poses a few days ago. Instead of keeping my gaze straight, I spy on my boyfriend, who turns his back on me to receive a call. I miss a step, and the next moment, my arms are flailing as I try to catch myself from falling. I land on my hands and knees.

Footsteps pad toward me in urgency, and someone helps me up. I wince and try to shake off the throbbing in my legs, but a look at my feet reveals the scratch around my knee. Great. I kick off the heels, ready to storm off when Ben picks me up.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Let’s just go,” I grumble. I smack Ben’s chest when he sets me down. “Liar. It’s not okay. I can’t do this. It’s a waste of time.”

Tears sting my eyes. Before I begin round two of belittling myself, Ben grabs my wrists and kisses me senseless. My lipstick stains his lips, and he touches his forehead to mine, alienating us from the rest of the world.

“Do you want to leave?” Ben whispers. His words from earlier flood my mind, and my mind riots at the thought of walking away from this. It’s all up to me. I stare at my hands locked in his. “It’s your decision to make, babe. But I know you’ll be upset with yourself if you leave now.”

I pout. “Who says?”

“You have been looking forward to it, babe,” he reminds me. I lift and drop my shoulder. Maybe. I was excited, but the nerves are winning. The expression on my face must have worried him. His hands bracket my hips, and he whispers, “If it were me, would you allow me to give this up?”

“Benny.” He’s bringing out the big guns. I wouldn’t, and he knows. It’s all about helping each other overcome our fears. I wiggle my toes, unable to face him as I say, “What if it doesn’t turn out right?”

“What if it turns out right?”

“What if no one wants to see me?”

“What if people want to see you, Gracie?” he says. “You know I always want to see you.”

A soft punch on his chest earns me a grin. “You know what I mean, Benny.”

“All those new followers on your Instagram, and no one wants to see you?” he whispers. They wouldn’t have followed if they hated me. I clench and unclench my fingers. I’m losing this battle. “Is that even possible?”

“No?”

Getting used to the online support might take a while, but people want to see me. Ben inhales deeply, and I do the same. I follow his breathing pattern until the nervous air in my lungs clears out.

My boyfriend cups my face, his lips so close that his words are almost mine. Fear takes flight from my body, and I breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne. This is what I know, this handsome face and pretty smile.

“What did one cute potato say to another?”

“What?” I reply.

Ben rubs my arms, comforting me with his touch. “Relax, you’ve got this.”

I snort into my palms. Of course. My sweet potato has spoken. Some of the nerves ebb, and I place my hands on my belly. Just a few pictures. Ben’s hand drops to my lower back as he guides me to the organizers.

“Must she walk?” Ben asks. I don’t want to. I would rather sit and pose. He exchanges a glance with Jon, and seconds pass with none of them breaking off the stare. The older man narrows his eyes, but Ben stands his ground. That’s my boyfriend. “If there’s no need for that, let her sit.”

Without waiting for Jon’s response, Ben leads me to the stool. I sit, and he pushes the dress away from my thighs like he has seen them do a few times. He kisses my scratch, and a current zings through me. I don’t worry about the almost negligible bruise because they will edit it out, along with the pimple on my jaw. My fingers run through Ben’s hair. He looks up at me, and I grin.

“You don’t want to walk, right?” he asks.

I shake my head. Frowning at the heels that almost ruined my ankles, I mutter for only him to hear, “And I hate those shoes.”

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