“Sometimes.”
“Hm.” His jaw tightens along with the rest of his features.
“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not sexual.”We’re back to that conversation from the attic.
“I just don’t like the idea of you on display for a room full of people.”
“Why, ’cause I’m like your sister?” I avert my gaze.
He smirks. “If I thought of you like a sister, we wouldn’t be here right now.” I swear a record scratches.What did he just say?
My face slackens. “You don’t?”
“No.” He clicks the shutter. “Keep right like that.”
Oh.I hold still while he works. My thoughts are racing, but none will hold still long enough for me to give them attention.
“Why do you seem so shocked?” He chuckles from behind the camera. “Focus on me, Chaos.”
Wait—what the hell is happening right now?
“There she is . . . Those are the eyes I want.” His grin is wicked. “Fuck, the way you’re staring has me almost believing it.”
There’s no way he just said what I think he said. I must have misheard him. I blink a few times. “You once said I was like a sister to you. You used to call me Junior . . .”
It was easier to pose for him when there wasn’t a chance in hell of him being attracted to me. But . . . what is he saying?
Earlier, I brushed off his flirtation as him helping to set the mood for photos or trying to get a rise out of me, but now I can’t help but wonder if it was more than that.
I gaze into the camera lens.
“Why do you think I started calling you Chaos?”
Jesus Christ.
He snaps more photos.
Nope.Nope, nope, nope.I ignore the intrusive thoughts of him. This is the product of alcohol and an inconvenient ovulation schedule. I can’t let him muddy my emotions. Thankfully, I don’t need to speak to him, I just need to complete the task at hand: hold still and take direction. So that’s exactly what I do.
He remains quiet and professional for the rest of the shoot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was by design, forcing me to sit with my thoughts. After two hours, we wrap up.
“Thanks, Kel. You did a fantastic job,” he comments, flipping through the shots he took on the small camera screen. “I think these will turn out perfect.”
He sounds so pragmatic.Was that it? Was it all for show?
“Anything . . . for a friend.” I put on my socks and shoes, waiting for him to say something. Correct me, laugh at the statement, shake his head—something.
He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction.
Logan simply hands me my jacket to send me on my way. “I’ll edit these tomorrow. Let me know if you need any help moving boxes out of the attic this weekend.”
He seems completely unfazed by my phrasing, and I hate the sinking feeling in my stomach. We’ve only ever just been friends. He’s made that clear over and over, yet I keep seeking more. The tendrils of my teenage crush have me in their clutch again.
Logan and I walk to my car parked outside, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Drive safe,” he says.
I nod and shut my door, eager to get out of here. As soon as I pull out of my parking space and turn the block, a lump forms in my throat and my eyes swell with tears.
