We reshoot the photos, and when I’m finally satisfied, there’s nothing to do but curl up in bed.
With Miles.
I watch, mouth dry, as he kicks off his shoes and crawls into the tent. He slips into the sleeping bag with no hesitation and grabs the hem of his shirt like he’s going to pull it off.
“Do you mind?” he asks. “I sleep hot.”
Do I mind having a bird’s-eye view of his delicious abs? Of course not.
That’s the whole freaking problem.
But I can hardly admit it, and there seems to be a bottleneck at the back of my throat, preventing a single word from escaping, so I just shake my head and watch as he peels his shirt off, revealing every sexy dip and ridge of his torso.
Dios mío.
The sight of his sculpted pecs is even better the second time around.
“Get your ass in here, Gonzalez.” He pats the fluffy blue sleeping bag with his other hand. “You can’t endorse a product you haven’t fully tested. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
My stomach tightens at the prospect of sleeping beside him. Which is stupid. We’ve been sleeping in the same tiny trailer for more than a week. He’s seen my bedhead. My short-as-hell sleep shirt.
For crying out loud, the man has seen—and touched—your panties.
Sharing a sleeping bag pales in comparison.
Besides, we’re fully clothed. Or, at least, I am.
There will be no touching.
And definitely no sex.
I climb in and slowly zip the tent flap behind me. When I turn, Miles is propped up on one elbow, grinning from ear to ear, those ridiculous abs on full display.
I freeze, unable to tear my gaze from his body.
Stay strong, Lucy.
He’s clearly doing it on purpose. Probably hoping I’ll chicken out and bail on the gig.
No freaking way.
I’m a professional. I can do this.
Your followers would lose their minds if they could see him right now.
No lies detected.
I’m so close to winning the bet I can taste it. In a few more days, we’ll roll up to the Santa Monica Pier, and Miles can eat crow. I’ll even buy it for him with the money from the Tently deal.
“You should take a picture,” he suggests, an amused smile curving his lips. “It’ll last longer.”
I open my mouth to make a snarky reply, but then I pull out my camera instead, determined to rise to the challenge.
“You know what they say. Pictures or it didn’t happen.”
Chapter Eighteen
Miles
