Chapter 1
Ashlyn
If you had toldme three months ago that I’d be hiding in a male model’s rose bush so I could snap a photo that would pay my rent, I would have asked if he was at least a sexy model.
And he is.
His name is Zane Calloway, and for those of you who live under a rock, this man is known for making a lot of money while wearing very little.
I suppose if I’m going to work a job where I could end up in jail, it better be worth it.
There are worse things I could be found guilty of than giving Sigma Magazine’s readers a close-up of Zane Calloway in his underwear.
I haven’t always worked for the paparazzi. I used to take pictures just for fun. Art for art’s sake and all that. But as it turns out, artists really are starving, and I needed the money.
Luckily, I’m a good photographer and know that I’m going to need more than just a close-up of his big bulge to make my bosses happy.
Some of these photos are going to need to include his chiseled jawline too. You know, for identification purposes.
Unfortunately, five hiding spots and fifty photos later, all I have to show for my efforts is a body full of scratches from the world’s prickliest rose bushes and a constellation of bug bites in some very unmentionable places.
Still, I need to get these shots.
My boss at Sigma has made that very clear. Come to work with a portfolio full of up-close-and-personal photos of Zane Calloway in his natural environment, or don’t bother coming to work at all.
I finally have a cubicle that faces the morning sun, providing my succulent collection with sunlight; I am not going in empty-handed.
Unfortunately, my view from the bushes at the edge of the property line isn’t going to cut it. Not unless someone cuts rose bushes back enough that I can see more than flashes of that half-naked body.
So I take a deep breath and army-crawl closer.
I might look ridiculous, but working in the underbelly of LA’s celebrity snow globe is tricky. I know every single house is infested with security cameras.
I’m not about to get caught snooping around on the property of a man whose underwear costs more than my camera.
“Okay, much better,” I whisper to myself as I settle behind what looks like a little pineapple tree and change the lenses on my camera.
All I have to do now is wait for Zane Calloway to emerge from his house for his nightly swim.
Suddenly my phone blares with the jingle from the Old Spice commercials.
Shit.
I shove my hand into the skin-tight pocket of my black leggings and pull it out, scrambling to silence it.
Suddenly, a slice of light appears from the opening of the back porch sliding door, and I drop to my belly. Lifting my head slightly, I can see him through the needle-like leaves of the pineapple tree.
He is standing in the doorway like the fucking statue of David in a pair of black swim shorts that are almost as tight as his famous underwear. His head is slowly pivoting with the precision of the second hand on a clock, scoping out his yard with a suspicious scowl. I’m guessing he's looking for the sound he just heard.
He’s glorious. I mean, freaking beautiful.
His eyes are bright but brooding, and his eyebrows are thick and expressive. His nose is well-defined, and his jawline is just the right amount of sharpness. He is sexy in both a mature and boyish way. His honey-colored hair flecked with silver sits upon an annoying hairline that hasn’t receded.
His abs aren’t just chiseled. They looked like they were sculpted by gods who carved them with intention and artistry. Every lineis unapologetic and merciless. It’s definitely the result of hard work, discipline, and genetics.
He’s an adonis, and quite possibly the most photogenic man I have ever laid eyes on.
Which works for me and my bank account.
