Why, she wonders,am I always the one carrying heavy shit?
This is not her job. Her job is to run point on a multi-tiered marketing rollout, keep everyone on schedule, and make sure none of the players accidentally say something offensive on camera.
She grunts in effort, muttering to herself as she readjusts her grip, her palms already sweating.
And then?—
“Jesus Christ.”
The voice is low. Dry. Utterly unimpressed.
Naomi looks up, still dragging the case, and there he is. Blond hair poking out from underneath a gray beanie, jaw tight like he’s been grinding it. He’s got a frown etched so deeply into his face it probably has its own zip code.
He eyes the equipment case and folds his arms over his muscled chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says.
Naomi blinks. “Oh, good morning to you, too.”
He doesn’t smile, eyes narrowing. “Why are you carrying their shit?”
He looks mad. And just like that, she’s mad too.
Because why is he mad ather?
She stops, shifting the weight in her arms and fighting the urge to chuck the case at his broad chest. “Because if I don’t, it doesn’t get done. Not everyone has people running in circles for them.”
His scowl deepens. His gaze drops to the case, then climbs slowly back up to her face. It lingers—longer than necessary, longer than polite. Her skin prickles.
Then he steps closer.
Not a huge move. Just one long-legged stride. But it’s enough. He’s in her space now, and the sheer size of him glowering down ather, smelling faintly of cedar and rain, sets something off in her chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
More like…heat.
Oh no. No no no. Not him.
She stares up at his frowning face, heart hammering.
Do not notice how hot his neck tattoo looks from this angle.
Too late.
Naomi drags her eyes away before she does something stupid, like sigh wistfully. Or lick him.
“You could help me,” she mutters, trying to focus on her anger, not how unsteady her knees feel. “Instead of just glowering at me.”
His eyes flick down, as if he’s just realized how close they’re standing. She sees the muscle in his jaw tick.
And then the heat in his eyes is gone.
That moment—whatever it was—is wiped clean from his face like it never happened.
He steps back. Not far. Just enough to let cold air fill the space he had been taking up.
His voice, when it comes, is flat as ice.
“Not my job.”
