I can’t look at him right now. If I do, I’ll see him standing in my open bedroom door all over again. I’ll have to relive watching all the love drain out of Luc’s eyes, and morph into insecurity while my overprotective manager reamed me like an errant teenager and treated Luc like he didn’t exist.
I feel sick. Empty. Afraid. But I let Blake lead me to the dining area, where Myra has spread out the concept ideas for our photo shoot tomorrow.
Myra does so much extra work to print out photos and pull fabric samples to make physical scrapbook-style mood boards because I have a hard time visualizing the concepts as a whole. Normally, I have a lot of fun with these kinds of shoots and enjoy picking out which coordinating pieces I want to wear. And because she’s amazing, Myra always includes an edgier, provocative feel for me, like crop tops, corsets, and plunging necklines.
I can almost see the wind go out of her sails when she sees me, and it makes me feel terrible. She’s been waiting for me for an hour, and then I show up in a piss-poor mood.
“Sorry, Myra,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. She wraps an arm around my waist and tells me to shut up.
“Wanna tell me about it?” She asks.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You could start with that blushing beefcake that walked out of your bedroom.”
I huff out a laugh, then pull out my phone and change his contact name. That’s just too damn good.
“I really like him.”
“I can tell,” Myra says, bumping my hip. I look at her curiously, and she rolls her eyes. “Well, for starters, he clearly spent the night. He was still here when all of us rolled in.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
“It’s a good thing that he seems the timid type,” she says. “Otherwise, I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have put Blake on his ass.”
I snort. “Luc isn’t like that.” Though I might have liked to see it this morning.
“Luc?” She rolls the name on her tongue. “Interesting pronunciation.”
“His full name is Lucius, but that’s his dad’s name, too. He just goes by Luc.”
“I like it.”
“I like him.”
“You said that already,” Emmy says, coming in with my pants draped over one arm.
“You.” I point at Emmy and look him dead in his pretty sky-blue eyes. “Flirt with my man again and I’ll tell Daddy Blake that thing you don’t want him to know.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
I narrow mine right back at him. “Myman, Emmy. Mine.”
Emmy raises an eyebrow, ready to snark back, but Naz chooses this very opportune moment to slink in like he smelled gossip, shades on, twirling a drumstick between his fingers.
“Did I just hear you sayyour man?”
“Mind your business.”
“Bro. You’ve known him for what, five minutes? All the years in between boning him the first time and the couple of days you spent with him don’t count, you know.”
“One, don’t call me bro when I’m emotionally fragile. Two, when you know, you know. And I know.” The trouble is whether or not he knows. “Third, you look like the worst kind of stereotype.”
“My dude, you’re the one who waxed his dick to wear assless chaps backwards.”
“You’re just jealous because you wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
“Yeah, ‘cuz my dick is too big.”
