So here I am, in a studio, under lights, being poked by a woman who’s giving me eyes like she wants to crawl inside my pants and take a nap.
“Relax your shoulders for me, Captain,” the stylist purrs, sliding her fingertips along my collar way too slowly to be professional.
“They’re relaxed,” I grunt.
“They’re granite,” she giggles.
That’s because all I’ve done for the past five days is think about Jessica Brooks.
Ever since the launch event, the little menace has taken up residence in my skull. Every smile, every glare, every quip, every little comment replays like a highlight reel.
The cameras aren’t even on yet, and I’m already regretting showing up.
“This looks really good on you,” the stylist coos.
She’s standing way too close, fingertips grazing the line of my collar as she pretends to adjust it. Her eyes drag down my chest like she’s mentally undressing me, and if she licks her lips one more time, I’m leaving.
The stylist reaches for my belt loops, and before I can stop her, Jessica beats me to it.
Heels click across the studio—sharp, fast, cutting through the chatter.
My spine reacts before I register it. She appears in my peripheral vision in a tight little black outfit that’s been making me semi-hard all morning. Her eyes go to me, then to the stylist’s hands on me, and her entire face changes.
“Hi! I’m almost done with—” the stylist begins.
“Yeah, no,” Jessica says flatly, sashaying between us. “You’re done.”
Oh, she’s jealous.
Fuck me, I feel that in my bloodstream.
The stylist blinks. “I’m… sorry?”
Jessica plucks the lint brush from her hand.
“I’ll be styling him.”
The stylist looks at me like I’m supposed to save her.
I lift a brow. “Don’t look at me. I don’t argue with her.”
Jessica cocks her head at the distressed stylist.
Fuck, she’s cute when she’s homicidal.
The stylist backs away, heels clacking as she disappears, and Jessica steps into her space.
My world narrows. She’s close enough that I can smell the faint sweetness of her perfume. I’m already leaning into it.
Jessica steps right up to me, chin lifted.
“You gonna tell me what that was?” I murmur.
“She was doing a terrible job,” Jessica huffs. “She put you in a beige shirt. Who does that to someone with your coloring?”
“My… coloring.”
“It’s basically your skin color. It washes you out,” she lectures, snatching at the fabric. “Take this off.”
