“Nate R.?” the other wardrobe assistant calls—I think her name is Deja.
I snap to attention, turning away from the small group of guys I’ve been shooting the shit with. “Over here!”
She jogs over, carrying a plain box in her hands. “Sorry, still learning everyone’s names.”
I know that’s probably code forMost of you won’t stick around long enough for me to bother learning your name, but I smile good-naturedly nonetheless. “No problem. What can I do for you?”
“Sienna and Rae watched the footage from the first night and decided you’re the funny guy,” Deja tells me.
I furrow my brow. “The funny guy?”
Deja waves a hand. “You know—on shows like these there’s always different guys. The smart guy. The aloof guy. The sweetheart guy. The heartthrob guy.” Seeming to realize she probably shouldn’t have said that last one—and thereby let me know that I’m definitely not inthatcategory—she rushes to add on, over enthusiastically, “And the funny guy!”
Great. The petty part of me wants to insist that in almost every other group of guys, I’ve always been the heartthrob guy. My prison nickname was Cassanova, for goodness’ sake! But I definitely can’t say that, and so I do my best to smile through my grimace. “Awesome.”
“Anyway, they thought it would be hilarious if you had an add-on to your costume.” Deja opens the box, showing me what’s inside. “Fun, right?”
It’s a coonskin cap. You know, with the furry top and the raccoon tail trailing down the back, like something Davy Crockett might wear. “So fun,” I manage finally.
Oh, Raquel and Sienna are clearly messing with me. Maybe they even hate me. Maybe they want me to be so humiliated that I remove myself from the show. Possibly even the planet.
But even if it weren’t my job to roll with whatever punches come my way, to stay undercover for as long as possible, I wouldn’t want to give either woman the satisfaction of seeing me crawl away with my tail between my legs. Instead, I’ll wear the cap proudly on the top of my head. They want me to be the funny guy? I’ll give them a funny guy.
I’m pulled out of my dramatic resolution when Deja randomly pokes me in the stomach. “Hey!” I protest, flinching away and putting a protective hand up. No one pokes funny guy in the tum-tum!
“Sorry.” Deja doesn’t sound all that sorry—liar, liar, pants on fire. “Your skin tone isn’t going to read well on camera. All your definition is gonna get washed out.”
Hi, Salt, have you met my good friend, Open Wound? Apparently, I’m funny, pasty, and not as muscularly defined as the other guys. Got it. Maybe I should pull up my bank account info so Deja can find some more ways to take digs at me. “Okay?”
“Nina will help you out with this. Nina!”
Before I can fully brace myself, Deja waves Nina over to my side. I clench all of my muscles reflexively, torn between dreading how I’m about to be humiliated but also excited to be near her in any capacity.Oh, you glutton for punishment, you.
Nina approaches, not quite making eye contact with me, a flush already creeping into her cheeks. Maybe that flush can be attributed to her being around so many hunky dudes in their underwear, but I see it in the brief moment our gazes connect. That flush is forme.
“Nate needs some help with his abs,” Deja tells her. “You know what to do?”
Nina nods, which makes me wonder just how many other men’s abs she’s been handling today, but I quickly push the thought aside, because I feel like it might make me go on a one-man journey to Spiral Town, and I do not have time for that today.
Reassured, Deja hurries off, undoubtedly to humiliate one of the other guys, leaving me alone with Nina. Well, let me take that back. We’re notalone. We’re surrounded by a bunch of guys and the production crew as they set up the first shot they’re going to do.
But any time I get to stand this close to Nina, look into her eyes, talk to her, it feels like it’s just the two of us.
For a moment, we just gaze at each other. I know I can’t let this drag out for too long, but I give myself thirty seconds to drink her in. She’s wearing a white cardigan today. She looks so beautiful in white. Like an angel. Her beautiful dark hair is braided, and I would give anything,anything, just to reach out and touch the soft ends.
Okay, officially time to snap out of it. I draw in a breath. “Sorry you have to, uh, paint my abs.” God, I’m stupid. How did I ever get hired by the FBI? “Do you need me to clench or is it better if I just let loose?”
Nina can’t quite make eye contact with me. Another flush begins climbing her neck, and it sends an unexpected flare of heat surging through me. “Uh, clenching is better, if you can.” Focusing in on my torso, she bites her lip.
Knowing Nina, she is not doing this to turn me on. But try telling that to the Dread Pirate Roberts. (Yes, I call my cock the Dread Pirate Roberts, and no, I won’t be answering any further questions about that.) Things are about to take a very weird turn on set if I can’t diffuse some of the tension between us.
Thinking quickly, I theatrically spread my arms and legs wide. “My body is your canvas. Paint me like one of your French girls, Nina.”
She smiles, one of her sweet, reluctant Nina smiles—the kind that feels special because it’s so hard to earn. “Don’t distract me,” she scolds, but her eyes are sparkling. “Otherwise your abs will look like a Picasso painting.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” But I obediently shut up, clenching and waiting for her to do her thing.
Makeup and brushes in hand, Nina leans forward so she can begin contouring my abs.
