The relationship in question has since been resumed. The decision to move forward together was not made lightly. It reflects mutual accountability, personal growth, and a shared commitment to rebuilding with intention.
No further comments will be made at this time.
* * *
That was the first step to create the illusion of our whirlwind workplace romance – the rugby star and the girl who takes his pictures. I almost scoff. Now comes step number two: a cosy-couply picture for social media. My expertise.
I position the ring light. The white-washed brick wall behind us provides perfect contrast. My phone’s camera settings are optimised. Everything’s ready – except for the two leads in this romantic charade.
‘Listen.’ I level the tripod for the last time. ‘This should be simple. Stand next to me and hold my hand.’
He moves slowly, as if he knows how not-simple this is. Then he offers his hand, palm up.
I place mine into his – and we both freeze.
His hand swallows mine whole. Warm and callused. There’s a small thrum under my skin, a warning signal.
It’s just a hand. Just a hand.
‘Christ, this feels weird,’ he says.
‘No argument there. But it’s meant to look natural. Not whatever this is. We look like we’re hostages, desperately holding on to each other until the polis arrive.’
He frowns. ‘Kind of fitting.’
‘Finlay, please relax your shoulders.’
‘They are relaxed, Theodora.’
‘They’re practically touching your ears. And you’re crushing my bones.’ I yank my hand free. The blood rushes back and I still feel the imprint of his grip. I shake it off. ‘Let’s try a close-up instead. Just our hands on the desk. Give me your jumper.’
Finn raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘You want me to strip, just say so.’
‘I need a backdrop, daftie.’
He shrugs it off, slow and unbothered, the black hoodie dragging the white T-shirt across his chest. The cotton pulls over muscle. Broad shoulders, defined arms, every inch of him cut and hot and completely unfair. His tattoos catch the light, ink winding down his arm. Veins shift under the skin as he moves.
I shouldn’t be watching this closely.
He hands me the jumper.
A pulse kicks between my legs, immediate and mortifying.
Dammit. What is it about tattooed men in white tees?
I exhale through my nose and smooth the hoodie across the desk surface. ‘Place your hand here, palm down.’
Finn complies and I position my hand over his, fingers barely touching.
‘It’s supposed to look artistic.’ I snap a test shot, check the screen, and grimace. The overhead perspective highlights his knuckle ink in stark detail.
‘Your tattoos are problematic.’
‘You’re only noticing that now?’
‘I mean especially for family-friendly photography purposes.’
The F-U-C-K across the knuckles of his right hand stares back at me in bold black letters. My red polka-dot nails sit absurdly cheerful against it.
