I know this is what she expected from the day—cameras and lights, open shirts and gelled hair, a crew of people working for me. And yeah, that's true some of the time. But I thought maybe she was starting to see that my life isn't what she sees online. That the one designed to make people believe I'm something that I'm not isn't real. Or at least I hoped so. But her reactions tell me she might not be there yet.
That's okay. I can wait.
"Good work, Drew," Isaac says, standing from where he was crouched for the last couple of shots. "We're going to grab some with the girls real quick, and then we'll get you out of here."
"Okay," I say, holding still so Melissa can gel a loose hair into place. I use the time to scan over to Brooke, who is jotting something down in a notebook. She glances up and smiles at me casually before going back to whatever she's writing.
She's bored, I'm sure. Hell, I fucking am. But I like her being here even though I know it's not exactly by choice. I'm tempted to let myself think about what it would be like if someonewashere just for me. Not for a picture or a paycheck or to be a face to their brand. But someone who was here to support me, and tease me for wearing makeup, and listen to me bitch about just wanting to go home. I'd kill for that to be Brooke if she’d ever look past all her excuses. If she’d forget that I’m younger or admit that she feels something anyway.
"Hey, Drew."
Two voices harmonize as identical twins step out from behind the backdrop of the set. They’re good-looking girls—blonde hair, nice racks, legs for days in the excuses for skirts that wardrobe put them in. They're definitely friendly judging from the way both girls drape their arms over my shoulders as they move beside me. And I’m sure they’re very sweet. But all I can picture is Burnsey telling me about twins that he saw do very unsister-like things in a dream he once had. They smile at me flirtatiously, and I smile back, though it’s more at the mental image I have of Burnsreenacting the scene like it was a goddamn Broadway production than at them.
Isaac starts directing us, telling me to stand strong, and both girls to act as if the cologne is a pheromone making me irresistible. The twins, whose names I still don't know because Isaac just keeps referring to them asthe girls,take advantage of his direction, clinging to me, their hands on my thighs, around my biceps, and slipped underneath my shirt. I'm told to ignore their wandering touch—to look anywhere but at them or the camera as if I don't even notice they're hanging on me.
It's easy enough, this is a job after all, and that's my natural response even when it's not. I start in one corner of the room, finding objects to home in on that are just beyond the lens, listening to Isaac tell me to pout or look stern or stick my hand into my pocket.
When I've done a few to the left side of the camera, I shift so that my gaze lands just outside of the right. And that's when I see her. Brooke—or at least a version of her. But it's not the same girl with her head in her notebook, borderline bored, or even the one who handed me the bottle with her usual faint attitude and a roll of her eyes.
No, this Brooke is alert—arms crossed, eyes narrow, lips pressed into a firm line. To everyone else, she's simply observing attentively. But I've watchedherwatchmeall damn day. And this? This is not that.
I freeze on her as her eyes flint back and forth between one twin and the other. The photographer tells me to hold my position, and at the sound of my name, we lock in on each other. We hold our stares for only a second before Isaac speaks again.
"That!" he yells under the lens of his camera. "Yes, Drew. Stay just like that."
I hold my expression—the one I couldn't change even if he asked me to. Whatever face I'm making is my natural response to seeing Brooke so reactive, and my guess is that it's dark and primal—like my thoughts about her.
She doesn't waver either, her eyes mirroring that same intensity.Is my mystery girl… jealous?The idea alone does something to me, and it takes everything in me not to dart off this set and explain that to her the best way I know how.
We hold our gaze for another few shutters of the camera, her mouth the only thing about her relaxing—her lips falling apart ever so slightly. It's only when Isaac yells for what must be the second time that we're done that I rip my eyes away from her, realizing I'm the only one still standing on set.
A crew member from wardrobe walks over to me, handing me my worn-in jeans and faded USA Hockey t-shirt. With my eyes still glued to Brooke's, I slowly unbutton the shirt that I'm wearing, letting it fall open and onto the floor. I tear off the tight jeans next, adding them to the pile. Brooke watches intently, making no effort to look away, and I find myself pulling my pants on as quickly as possible to cover my dick's natural response to her attention.
After what feels like forever, yet still not long enough, Brooke tears her gaze from me and starts packing up her things. I finish dressing myself and say my goodbyes to Isaac and the crew.
"Don't forget about tonight," Jane says when I tell her I'm leaving. "You're meeting her at Josephine's on Third. I already have the paps set up."
I sigh, taking a vested interest in my boots. "What time?"
"Reservation's at six."
I glance down at my watch, then my head snaps back to her. "That's in like an hour." Jane stares at me straightfaced. "And I still have fucking makeup on."
"Well, you better get home and get showered." One of the phones in her hand buzzes on top of the other, and she accepts the call, tilting the speaker away from her mouth. "Or better yet, leave it on," she whispers. "It'll make your cheekbones pop." She slides her phone back into place and tips her chin up at me. "Jane Simpson."
I roll my eyes and groan, turning around and nearly running right into Brooke. I'm instantly calmed, the idea of spending the rest of my night on a publicity stunt suddenly not so bad with her in my presence.
"Oh, hey, sorry. Are you ready to go?"
Brooke tucks her hair behind her ear, avoiding eye contact with me. "Mhmm."
I grin to myself, noting her change in demeanor from earlier, but keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I nod toward the door, dropping my hand on her lower back as she steps toward it. She sucks in a quick breath but continues moving.
We walk in silence until we get outside, both of us stopping when we get to my bike.
"Where to now?" she asks expectantly.
I grab both helmets off the seat and hand one to her. "Your place, I guess. There's not much else to see."
