“Never took you for a shy guy, Callahan,” Grayson said, tilting his head for the artist to touch up his makeup.
Hunter tensed, but didn’t say anything. Just kept up his unshakeable shield for the camera. I could tell he was counting the minutes until all this was over, could hear the argument he was formulating in his head.
This sneaker deal had been my doing, after all. My bright idea to get him the kind of coverage the brand could benefit from.
How was I supposed to know the campaign was to have them strip down for the shoot?
“Okay, guys, last adjustments,” the photographer said. “Hunter, scooch forward a little. I can’t see the whole sneaker. Mason, tilt your right shoulder. That’s it. Beautiful. Perfect. Hold it. And…”
The flash went off, and it started a whole new round of poses and positioning. Hunter’s jaw clenched as he tried to balance the cube over his lap, and I had to resist the urge to reach out and adjust him myself. I held back. This wasn’t mine to fix unless the photographer asked for it.
“You know,” Mason said, trying to lighten the mood, “if this goes viral, people are going to lose their minds. You, me, Grayson… just sneakers and nothing else. It’s art, right?”
I arched a brow. “I’m not in a hurry to call up the Metropolitan, but sure. Art.”
Hunter let out a low grunt, half amusement, half exasperation. “Can we have less talking and more clicking, please? I’m freezing my ass off.”
“I own you for a full hour,” the photographer said, and nudged Hunter’s cube with his elbow. “It’ll go a lot smoother if we all just work together.”
“Easy for you to say,” Hunter mumbled. “You have the luxury of pants.”
The photographer stepped back for another round of shots, happy with the new composition. The guys did well, managing to cycle between looks that were menacing, brooding, and happy as thecommands were yelled at them.
All I managed while standing back and watching, was barely keeping it together as heat pooled low in my belly. It took every ounce of restraint to keep it from showing up anywhere else. Under Mason’s watchful eye, I knew he’d never let it slide if he caught even the slightest hint of a flush on my cheeks.
I wavered between looking away to catch my breath, and checking that Hunter was okay. He was shifting slightly, trying to look natural while being effectively naked in front of the camera. I could see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his arms flexed in holding onto the cube for dear life.
“Couldn’t we have worn boxers and then you just remove it with Photoshop?” Grayson asked, nearly half an hour into the shoot.
The photographer rolled his eyes. “If you wanted tacky, you should’ve called in the paparazzi. I take my work seriously.”
“You’re going to tilt too far, Hunter,” I said, stepping closer. My voice was paper thin, brittle with self-consciousness, but I played it down. “Don’t lean so far forward. Keep the cube level with your lap. It moves when you slouch.”
“Don’t change how I’ve planted them,” the photographer called from behind his camera. “You’ll ruin the shot.”
Hunter turned his head and gave me the tiniest smirk. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Drill Sergeant.”
“Save your energy for that cube,” I replied. “It’s the only thing between you and the front page of a gossip rag. I’m good at what I do, but even I can’t save you from that.”
The photographer snapped a few more shots. “Almost there. Just a little more attitude, Hunter. Less tension. You’re having fun, not passing a kidney stone.”
The guys burst out laughing, which sent the photographer into overdrive, snapping a succession of shots to catch the casual coolness in its natural element.
Hunter’s eyes flicked toward me, almost daring. I didn’t flinch. Not today. I knew what he was doing, testing boundaries, seeing if I’d break or give him an inch. I gave him nothing. I kept my posture tight, arms folded across my chest.
“Okay, now give me some of that Surge arrogance the people know and love.” The photographer danced around them with his camera, eating up every pose as if they were feeding him honey.
Mason leaned over and whispered something to Hunter, which made him chuckle. Good. A small crack in the tension, and the shoot heated up.
“Alright,” the photographer said, “one more. And this time, Hunter, imagine you’re just a guy who happens to be very skilled at hockey, standing next to his humble teammates. No ego, no bravado. Give me you. Just you.”
I caught the tiniest flicker of surprise in his eyes. He wasn’t used to being coached like this, not in front of the guys, not this intensely. But he adjusted, just slightly, and I let myself breathe a fraction easier. Also, I couldn’t help being curious about who exactly ‘Just Hunter’ even was.
“Cube placement,” I muttered. He shifted slightly. “Relax your jaw.”
“One is enough to listen to,” he mumbled, barely moving his lips to save the shot. “Quit telling me what to do.”
The photographer clicked rapidly, and for a brief moment, everything aligned. The tension in the room eased up and the guys looked like they were having fun.
