“Breaking and entering?” I ask.
“Taking photos of you!”
I scoff at that. “Oh, trust me, I’m aware of your job. And you know what? You’re all the same. You care more about a paycheck than the privacy of people like me,” I say as I walk into the kitchen to grab two beers out of the fridge. “Thirsty?”
“Lite beer?” she asks.
“Is that a problem?”
“I just assumed you’d drink something more crafted. An IPA or something. You strike me as an IPA bro,” she says.
Honestly, I like an IPA. I’d drink them more often, but my manager consistently reminds me about my competition. Upcoming models like Jett Navarro are twenty years younger than me, and so are their metabolisms; an IPA is a death sentence.
But since I don’t want her knowing that, I scoff again. “IPAs are great, but they’re loaded with calories and carbs.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man say those words before,” she says as she takes a sip. “This isn’t half bad. How many calories did you say?”
I ignore the latter part of the sentence and address the beginning. “That’s because most of the men you’ve met don’t have to look like this,” I tell her.
This time, she’s the one scoffing. “You are something else. You’re not that hot, you know,”
“Oh?” I challenge with a smirk. “Is that why you’re staring at me?”
“I’m staring at you because you insist on walking around the house in nothing but a towel,” she says, taking another sip of the beer.
“That’s one of the perks of having your own house. You can wear, or not wear, anything you want,” I say with a wink. Then I take a sip, set the bottle down, and clap my hands together. “Alright, so what are we going to tell them?”
“What are we going to tell who?” she asks.
“The police,” I answer, and her eyes widen.
“You’re actually calling the police?” she nearly chokes.
“It was your idea.” I state. I’m messing with her, obviously. I love messing with paparazzi; it’s always a good time. God knows they mess with us enough.
“Well, there’s no point,” she stutters. “I mean, you destroyed the evidence,” she frowns down at the camera. “And possibly my paycheck…”
“Lucky for you, I have more evidence,” I tell her, and her eyes flicker up at me. “Security cameras.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. Then she stands up. “Look. I’ll make a deal with you. You let me go, no cops, and I’ll never come back again.”
“I don’t think that’s really how that works, sweetheart,” I tell her, leaning against the counter and crossing my feet at the ankles. I take a sip of my beer with amusement on my lips.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, this is your job. You’re paparazzi. Sneaking around is what you do,” I say. She bolts up from the chair, causing the throw blanket to fall to the floor around her feet and her hood to fall back off again.
She stands in front of me, shorter by a good six to eight inches with a scowl that could burn holes in my recently exfoliated skin. There is something else burning in her eyes, though. Anger? Passion? Definitely passion, though I’m not a hundred percent sure what kind, but I want to find out.
“I am not just paparazzi,” she snaps, giving me a little tease of a taste of that passion.
“But it’s your job,” I state.
“Yes. For now. But it’s not who I am,” she says boldly.
I can’t help but shift my weight and smirk at this. Most of these people are either ruthless with their lens and set out to destroy, or they’re not the brightest people in the world.
“Alright,” I say, my voice deep and low, barely above a whisper. “So, who are you?”
