Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I seize the chance, dropping my right hand from the steering wheel, then brushing my thumb along the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Slow and deliberate.
With a surprised gasp, Beck shudders so I keep going. With my thumb, I trace a line up to his fingertip, sparks kicking through me from the barest of touches, from his unadulterated reaction. His lips part as he sinks into whatever sensations are racing through his body.
The light changes. I grip the wheel and focus only on driving the rest of the way.
The car feels like it’s ticking.
I draw a deep, lungful of air to get my bearings, but the air is filled with him. The outdoorsy scent of his aftershave is wreaking havoc with my brain.
When we arrive at Crissy Field, I pull into a parking spot along the grassy expanse of playing fields, the Golden Gate Bridge rising majestically above the clear blue waters. I exit the car and grab my jersey.
The sun is shining uncharacteristically for a September morning. The air is warm. The world is my changing room.
I stand outside the car, tug off my sky-blue polo, and toss it in the backseat.
On the other side of the vehicle, Beck does the same with his shirt, reaching for the hem, jerking it over his head, chucking it into my car.
I try not to stare. I swear I do.
But I fail miserably when I catch black lines curling over his shoulders, then down and around his biceps. My mouth waters as my eyes trace the ink.
I turn the other way as I pull on my jersey. Don’t want to be sporting wood during a photo shoot, no matter how much I like ink.
And I like it a lot.
14
MULTITASKING IS HARD
Beck
Asher St. James is all charm and hair. He’s an in-demand fashion and sports photographer in town for a handful of jobs, including this one.
Asher already knows Jason. Because, of course. Jason always knows everyone. Jason’s friends with everyone. I’m always the outsider.
But Asher’s focused on making sure we’re comfortable as he lines us up on the grass with the bridge behind us. “This is going to look fantastic. I love it when I have such gorgeous subjects,” he says, then snaps shot after shot. Asher’s easy banter almost makes me forget how attracted I am to the quarterback next to me.
But the first round of photos is probably full of duds anyway. I have this problem where I don’t know what to do with my hands. I try them in front of me, then I let them hang at my sides, and could this shoot end right fucking now?
“Beck, do you want to perhaps put your hands on your hips?” Asher offers.
I try that too, feeling more ridiculous since it’s so obvious I’m uncomfortable in front of the camera. Which is weird—I play a game on TV before millions. But football doesn’t make me uncomfortable. The laser focus on me does.
Asher takes more pics, smiling as he goes. “And maybe now just tuck them into your pockets. Like Jason.”
Yes, Jason can pose and look good at the same time. He’s so easy with everything, including knowing when to touch me in the car and when to stop.
Ugh.
Thinking of the car is not helping.
Asher peers at the back of the camera and then gives a cheery grin. “Let’s try a different approach.” This guy must hate me for ruining every shot. “I’m thinking maybe if you’re both looking away from each other, we can get a different vibe.”
Yes, hopefully it’s the I’m-not-thinking-about-Jason’s-hands-on-me vibe.
“How about a little back-to-back action,” Asher says.
Jason tries to stifle a laugh but fails.
Asher rolls his eyes. “Not everything is dirty, McKay.”
“But some things sure sound that way.”
“To you, Jason, to you,” Asher deadpans, but it’s clear he’s entertained by the Hawks’ quarterback. My lips twitch in the start of a grin. Guess I am too.
Before I’m even fully aware of it, Asher lifts the Nikon and snaps a candid shot of us.
Asher doesn’t stop. I doubt Monday Morning Quarterback wants pics of us smiling. A grinning football player doesn’t sell much besides cell phones or fast food. Post-game shows require a little more grit.
Still, Asher keeps going, then he waves a hand my way, urging me to move closer to Jason. “Now, Beck, if you can slide just a smidge to the right. Your left shoulder should touch Jason’s right, and you’ll both be angled out a bit.”
I follow his orders, my shoulder bumping Jason’s, my heart rate kicking up. I ignore it like I ignore linebackers who want to annihilate me when I’m in the pocket.
“And Jason, cross your arms,” Asher instructs. “Give me that look that terrifies other teams.”
“That’s all my looks, Ash,” Jason says.
“Of course it is,” Asher says, then turns to me. “I’m sure you intimidate defenses too.”