“Hartley.”
“I'm just agreeing with the professional.”
Theo smothered what was definitely a laugh. “He's right. You look like you're doing a tax audit. Think about something pleasant.”
I stared at my own reflection and tried to think about something pleasant. The only thing my brain produced was Hartley's face when he'd talked me into this, that grin that meant he'd already won and was just waiting for me to catch up. I pressed that thought down immediately and thought about the cinnamon roll from the bakery instead.
Marginally safer.
“Better,” Theo said, already moving to my jaw. “See? Not so bad.”
“I've had dental procedures that felt more dignified than this.”
“Most of my clients say the same thing for the first ten minutes.” He met my eyes in the mirror, dry and unbothered. “Then they see the photos and book me again.”
Across the room, Priya was holding two shirts against Hartley's chest, tilting her head one way and then the other with the focused deliberation of someone choosing between surgical instruments.
“The navy,” Hartley said.
“I know what you think, but you're wrong,” Priya said, not looking up. “The slate.”
“The navy photographs better on me.”
“The slate photographs better on your skin tone, which is what I said, which you'd know if you let me finish a sentence.” She set the navy aside with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. “Slate. Open collar. And we're doing the shirtless series first, so it doesn't matter yet anyway.”
I looked up from the mirror. “The shirtless series?”
“For the charity calendar component,” Priya said, already moving to the rack. “Didn't June mention that?”
“June mentioned none of that.”
“You're fine, you're keeping the shirt on,” Hartley said, already reaching for the hem of his own. He pulled it over his head in one easy motion, dropped it over the back of his chair, and reached for his phone like he hadn't just—like he wasn't just sitting there?—
I looked back at my own reflection.
Theo made the small adjustment to my hair he'd been working toward, pronounced me done, and stepped aside to let his assistant take over. The assistant's name was apparently also relevant to this situation, because she picked up a small amber bottle from the counter, warmed some oil between her palms, and moved toward Hartley.
It was completely routine. This was what photoshoots involved. I knew this intellectually.
But it did not help.
She worked the oil across his shoulders first, then down over his chest, and Hartley sat there scrolling his phone with the detached patience of someone getting a car washed. Like this was just maintenance. Like the studio lighting wasn't doing something genuinely unfair to the planes of his abdomen, catching every line of muscle in a way that made the whole thing look less like a person and more like an argument.
I looked at the mirror. Looked at my hands. Looked at the far wall, where there was a very interesting framed print of what appeared to be a fern.
I studied the fern.
“Grant.”
I looked back. Priya was holding the charcoal henley out to me with the patient expression of someone who had said my name at least once already.
“Sorry,” I said, and took the shirt.
I changed behind the screen in the corner, which I now appreciated more than I could reasonably explain, and spent approximately thirty seconds doing the mental equivalent of a cold shower.
This was fine.
When I came back out, the assistant had moved on to Hartley's torso—the slow, thorough work of making sure the oil caught light evenly—and Hartley had finally put his phone down and was looking straight at the mirror, jaw slightly tight, something unreadable moving behind his expression.
