I’m not a man who follows orders easily. But this one? This one I follow.
Slowly.
I undo the first button and pause. I watch her throat move as I drag the second button open. Her cheeks flush when I pull the shirt off my shoulders, flexing my muscles more than necessary.
Jessica rips her gaze away and thrusts a black shirt at my chest.
“Put that on.”
“Bossy.” I raise a brow.
I take the shirt, then tilt my head, letting my eyes drop to her mouth. “You want this on me?”
“Yes,” she says, irritated. “Obviously. It frames your shoulders better and makes you look—”
“Then do it.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
“You want to be my stylist?” I say, taunting. “Dress me.”
She looks at the shirt, then up at me. She grudgingly steps in, lifting the black shirt and slipping it onto my arms. Her fingers graze my shoulders as she smooths the fabric.
It’s a tiny, barely-there touch, but it feels like lightning against my skin. Her hands glide down my chest to align the buttons, and my body locks tight.
Fuck.
She buttons the first one, biting her lip in concentration, pretending she doesn’t feel the heat. She reaches the second button, and her knuckles brush the center of my chest. She moves to the third.
I’m gone.
“See?” she murmurs, her eyes flicking up, searching my face. “Much better.”
“Are you complimenting me?” I step forward, forcing her to tilt her head up to keep eye contact.
“I’m complimenting myself and my ability to fix messes.” She lifts her chin proudly.
“Jessica, sweetheart, let’s get a few solo shots first,” the photographer calls out.
He’s exactly what I expected when I saw the name on the call sheet: early thirties, tiny rectangle glasses, all-white outfit, expensive sneakers, wrists covered in bracelets. The type who drinks iced Americanos in winter and calls everyone darling.
Jessica brightens and steps under the lights, and I can’t stop looking at her.
She’s not posing. She’s just there, natural and calm. That influencer life carved her into a camera’s dream.
Her lashes lower and lift gently with each flash. Her lips part slightly with each direction he gives. Her shoulders relax, head tilts, chin angles. It’s not theatrics, not stiff, self-conscious movement. She glows.
I study her shamelessly: the curve of her jaw, the tiny beauty mark on her neck, her delicate collarbone, the flush on her cheeks.
The photographer circles her slowly, shutter clicking.
“Beautiful, Jessica. Chin down a bit, yes, hold that. Gorgeous. Your skin tone is incredible on this backdrop.”
My jaw ticks. He’s… close. I don’t like the way he’s talking to her.
“Relax your hands,” he murmurs, guiding her wrists lightly. “Lovely. Let your lips soften… yes, that’s it.”
My teeth grind.
