Page 75 of Colliding with Ten

During the next wardrobe change, Forge & Flight changed everything. A stylist handed me a new outfit that clung to all the places that sold me as a sex symbol. Someone rubbed oil across my skin, muttering about “definition for the camera.”

Then Ayla walked back in, and my lungs forgot how to breathe. She wore a sports bra, fitted boy shorts that left little to the imagination, and bare feet. The team had brushed oil across her skin, and its honey tone shone beneath the lights with every movement. Her curls were loose, framing her face in spirals. I didn’t think she could glow more, but here she was, proving me wrong.

Someone handed me a football.

“Alright, Lennox. Let’s warm up with some action shots,” the photographer called. “Keep it playful with the ball. We’ll have Ayla move around you, showing both of you recovered.”

I spun the ball on my fingertips, an easy money shot since I could do this with my eyes closed. Then she stepped into frame.

Her body curved as she made ballet poses choreographed around me. She turned in a slow spin on her tiptoes, brushing past my shoulder. Her light scent wafted past. It was sweet, with a hint of vanilla, very distracting. The ball slipped, thudding against the floor.

The crew chuckled. “That’s okay, keep rolling.”

I picked it up, grinning through the heat climbing up my neck. “My bad.”

We started again. I tossed the ball from hand to hand, trying to focus. She stepped closer, pivoted on her right foot, and lifted into that arabesque pose again. My eyes followed her bare legs instead of the ball. Another drop.

She laughed. “I’m sorry.” She teased with a dubious look. “Are you sure you’re a football player?”

“You’re not sorry,” I said, trying not to smile. “Yes, on most days I am, but not today. I’m a little distracted.”

“I have my doubts.” She reached down for the ball, leaving one leg up in a perfect 180-degree split. My eyes followed the lines of her body with admiration. The move was so hot. The camera's snap reminded me we weren’t alone.

She stood up and chucked the ball at me, and I almost fumbled the damn thing.

“Could have fooled me.” She giggled again.

I tried to redeem myself in her eyes. “Okay, I don’t catch footballs. I throw them. Those are two different mechanics.”

She chuckled. “Sure.”

The next setup had her circling me again, her fingertips near my arm without touching. Every instinct screamed to reach out, to do anything but stand there pretending I didn’t want to be closer. Our eyes connected under a pull I couldn’t ignore.

“Alright, that’s perfect!” the photographer called out. “Let’s get another angle. Lennox, keep the ball balanced. Ayla, I want that spin again, around him this time, like a halo.”

“We should skip the football,” I said to the photographer.

“Maybe you should focus,” she teased.

“I’m trying,” I murmured, blowing out a breath through my nose.

But you make it difficult, I screamed in my mind. I think she caught the hint. Her smile slipped as a blush crept up her cheeks.

As the crew moved lights around us, she turned her face toward me and whispered, “Butter fingers.” Her eyes sparkled when she said it.

“Okay then, just one more new position with the ball, Lennox,” the photographer said, adjusting the lens. “Ayla, I want you to jump. We’ll time your lift with the spin of the ball.”

My attention snapped to her. Jump? She’d been doing well today, but those were mostly stretches and extensions. This morning, I spotted two small hitches in her steps. They were so small I doubted anyone else noticed, but I was paying more attention to her than usual.

She stepped toward me. “Ready?” she asked.

I considered questioning this decision, but with her smiling up at me ready to go, who was I to stop her? Nope, I wasn’t ready, but I nodded anyway.

The photographer counted down from three.

On “one,” I spun the ball on my fingertips. And she pushed off the floor, legs splitting into a perfect line. She hovered there, suspended in the camera's flash. The ball stayed in a tight spin.

As she descended, her laughter was breathless. Without the wince, I would have thought she was fine.