“I could hear his passion behind this project. It’s important to love what you do. You’re a good friend for helping him out.”
“Do you think we’re going to have to take our clothes off?” I blurt out. I close my eyes and smack my forehead with the heel of my palm, wishing the ground would swallow me up. “Shit. Sorry, that was weird as hell. Let’s pretend I didn’t ask that out loud. How embarrassing.”
Aiden grins. The smile is slightly lopsided, lifting higher on the right side of his mouth than the left. And, I realize seconds later, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. He smiles with his whole being, a bright explosion of color and giddiness working across his face. There’s teeth and eye wrinkles. A scrunched nose and the drop of his head backward as his shoulders shake.
“Sorry.” He chuckles. “I’m not going to be able to forget that. Though if we’re being honest, for my sake, I hope we are going to take them off.” His gaze roams down my figure in an assessment that’s far from cordial. I squirm under the slow drag of his pupils, noticing how they linger on my hips the longest.
“Why’s that?” I ask. It’s raspy. My throat is parched and my lungs are seizing, in desperate need of oxygen. All the air has been sucked out of the room, nothing but extinguished embers from a kindled fire left behind.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Maggie. I’d be an idiot to hope for anything else.”
The hair on my arms stands up. My blood hums. My heart stutters and lurches, latching onto the blunt words protectively, hoping I can keep them forever. I can tell it’s not a generic line used on other women. It’s authentic, tailored just to me.
“Mags. Aiden. Hair and makeup time. Let’s go,” Jeremiah barks out from across the room. Another moment disrupted and I rub the back of my neck. I’m usually not one to ignore my surroundings, but I’m completely distracted.
Aiden blanches, glee fading to horror. “Why does he sound like an asshole?”
“Because he runs a tight ship. The second those lights turn on and he has a camera in his hands, it’s like I’ve never met the guy I took to senior prom. We can stop whenever we want, but until we reach that point, be prepared. He’s ruthless. What Jer says, goes.”
“What did we get ourselves into?”
“Hell,” I say brightly. “Want to hear the bright side?”
“Please.”
That wretched word again.
“We don’t have to suffer alone. We’re in this together.”
“I like the sound of that,” he says. It’s husky and lower than before. Rich, with a promise behind the words. A tone I’d like to hear again, outside these walls and somewhere private, maybe. With a parting glance, Aiden turns on his heel and heads toward Jeremiah.
Oh, shit.
I am in a heap of trouble.
SEVEN
AIDEN
Maggie Houston is radiant.I struggled to get words out when her gaze locked on mine. My mind went slack, riddled with uselessness. Nothing I could say felt adequate enough. We’re on two different levels; she’s in the stratosphere, on a pedestal of loveliness, while I reside on Earth, a mortal who will never be good enough.
Even with blush on her cheeks, lipstick painting her mouth a shade of pink, and her previously straight hair turning to slight waves after seeing the stylists, there’s an easy, natural beauty about her. The glow is similar to a summer day when the air is warm, and the sun is bright in the cloud-free sky. You tip your head back, close your eyes, and relish in the blissfulness of serenity, a picture of perfection.
Thatis what it’s like to be in her presence.
It’s overwhelming.
Her long hair is a mixture of blonde and brown streaks, the shade of caramel or honey. Her eyes twinkle like finely cut green emeralds, tangoing with excitement. The smile on her lips is gregarious and wide, but also sultry and tempting, capable of bringing the world to its knees in worship. On her left cheek is a single dimple, sharply carved into the smooth, blemish-free skin.
Her sinister figure is reminiscent of sculptures I’ve seen in museums, the ones I’ve always found attractive, cut out of marble with soft curves and hips and thighs. She’s all woman. And her ass? It’s so round, so goddamnperfect, it has me wondering if my heart is going to flatline. Deceased by Maggie Houston’s backside, and in need of resuscitation.
My favorite part about her isn’t the way her jeans hug the swell of her bottom or the dip in her shirt hinting at hidden cleavage. It isn’t the way her tongue sneaks out of her mouth to wet her lips between sentences, or how she smiles at almost everything.
It’s how tall she is. She stands inches above me, easily. Some men are embarrassed they're not six-foot-something, willing to sell their soul for a more “masculine” stature and shying away from partners who tower over them.
Me?
I don’t give two shits. I’ve always gravitated toward women who have the height advantage, finding the slope of their legs, the length of their calves and thighs as I run my hand up a never-ending stretch of skin stupidly sexy. And when they’re wearing heels, or, in Maggie’s case, wedges?
