“We were led to believe today’s shoot would be for a line of athletic wear, not underwear,” I state, crossing my arms over my chest. “Either you deliberately misled me and my client, or there’s been a miscommunication with the wardrobe coordinator.”
She sputters, her face reddening. “I—that’s not what—jockstraps are athletic wear.”
“Right, that answers that question. Perhaps you should read through Mr. Austin’s contract more thoroughly. My client has an ironclad nudity clause.
Archer comes out of his dressing room covered in jeans, a white tee, and a pair of Nikes. Sunglasses are perched atop his head, and a brilliant smile graces his handsome face. “I’m out. Sorry, Nina, but I won’t be flashing my buns today or any other day. My girlfriend’s the jealous type,” he says to Nancy, who glowers at him.
We exit, side by side.
Once outside the building, I elbow him in the ribs. “Your girlfriend’s the jealous type?” I whisper-hiss.
“You made it pretty clear you’re not cool with me strutting my stuff in front of other women,” he says, shrugging. “Which, by the way, is super fucking hot.”
I gape at him. “No, it’s not.”
His lips rise in that stupid smile I like so much. I want to reach out and touch him—to hold his hand or smack him upside the head. I’m not sure which. But we haven’t talked about taking this thing between us public.
Archer isn’t like other men. I can’t just kiss him whenever I want. Not without it going viral. He made the list of the top fifty bachelors in the city earlier this year. Us being together will not go unnoticed. As much as I want to simply carry on as we are right now and avoid any and all conversations that make this any more real, I’m beginning to realize I can’t.
He’s looking at me as though he wants to kiss me, and I wish like hell it were that simple.
I avert my gaze, putting all my focus on my cell as I order an Uber. As luck would have it, there’s one not two blocks away, ETA less than a minute.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, moving closer to me as we wait on the sidewalk.
“Nothing to worry about right now,” I tell him. “We can talk about it later. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then talk to me now,” he presses.
My Uber pulls up at the curb, and I place my hand on Archer’s forearm. “Tonight, okay? I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting with Kins and the girls to sort out bridesmaid dresses.”
He sighs. “Fine. I’ll see you later.” His head dips toward mine, then he freezes, as if realizing he was about to kiss me in the middle of the sidewalk. He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head, his jaw clenching.
I squeeze his arm gently, trying to reassure him that we’re good. “Tonight,” I murmur then release him and get in the waiting car.
I text Kins that I’m on my way, then I flick Clay one, too, letting him know to expect to hear from Primal. Slipping my cell into my bag, I rest my head back and close my eyes, taking a beat to relax before diving headfirst into the madness of dress shopping with my girls.
Everyone is already there when I arrive at the Fiora seamstress’s office. Kins’ family owns one of the largest fashion houses in the country. It only makes sense that her gown would be a Fiora creation.
“Heeyyy,” I say, greeting the room. “Sorry I’m late. A work thing came up.”
Kinsley’s mother glowers at me from across the way. The woman hates me, but the feeling is mutual, so I ignore her sour ass. I don’t even know why she’s here.
Sidling over to Kins, I ask, “What’s the Wicked Witch of the West doing here?”
She widens her eyes at me. “I don’t know!” she whispers. “I haven’t even told her about the wedding.”
That’s not at all surprising, but her mother’s presence here is, and it’s upsetting Kins. I give her a wink and tell her, “I’ll deal with the shrew. You go about your business as if she’s not even here.”
She swallows, her gaze nervously darting toward her then back to me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I got this.” Leaving Kins behind me, I stride toward the she-devil that produced her. I often wonder how she managed to create such a kindhearted and gentle soul as Kinsley. The apple definitely fell far, far from the tree in this case.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Fiora,” I say coolly. “What brings you here today?”
“What do you think, Lennon?” she says, disdain dripping from her tone. “My daughter is having a wedding dress made. Do you honestly think I’d let that happen without my guidance?”
I shake my head then pat her arm. “Didn’t you get the memo? Atticus doesn’t want you or your poison anywhere near Kins. I suggest if you want to stay, you keep your guidance to yourself, or I’ll be forced to put in a call to your future son-in-law. And we both know that won’t go well for you . . .” I turn and rejoin the girls, catching sight of her stalking out of the room from the corner of my eye.
“She’s leaving,” Kins says, taking hold of my hand. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me—I used your man to scare her away.”
A brilliant, lovestruck smile lights up her whole face. She’s so in love—it’s disgusting.
Oh God, I better not look like that when I think about Archer . . .
When I get home from the failure of a photoshoot, I find Bates chillin’ on the new couch in his underwear.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” I greet, dropping onto the opposite end to him.
He shrugs. “Nothin’. Just watching a shark doco.”
“Is there a reason you’re doing it in your underwear?” I ask, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.
“Apparently,” he scoffs, “common areas are not clothing optional.”
I laugh. “Well, yeah, dude. We live with your sister . . .”
“So,” he fires back. “It’s not like it’s a sexual thing. I just enjoy hangin’ out in my natural state.”
“I know,” I mutter. The number of times I’ve spent time with Bates in the buff is disturbing. “So, if it’s not sexual, you wouldn’t mind coming home and finding Lennon chillaxing buckass naked then?”
His face contorts in revulsion. “Fuck no. She’s my sister.”
I laugh. “Exactly, dickhead. She doesn’t want to see you naked any more than you want to see her.”
“Whatever. It’s not the same thing. I don’t have tits.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I ask, genuinely confused by his logic.
“Tits are distracting. They draw the eye like magnets. If tits are out, that’s where I’ll be lookin’. Doesn’t matter whose they are. Dicks are different. You have to deliberately search them out,” he says as if this all makes perfect sense.
I shake my head. “I worry about you, man. I really do.”
He shrugs me off, going back to watching his documentary, muttering under his breath, “It’s science.”
It’s unusual for Bates to be home on a Friday night, so after a while, I ask, “No hot date tonight?”