“Could you stand a little closer?” the photographer asked.
Rocco inched over.
Celeste marched up to them, waving the photographer’s assistant off. “This was the other thing I wanted to tell you,” she whispered in Nico’s ear. “They decided they wanted Rocco too, and he agreed to do it. I should have told you sooner. I would have, but I didn’t believe he would actually go through with it. He hates this kind of thing.” She drew a deep breath as she took a step back and surveyed them. “Normally this isn’t part of my job, but can you two loosen up?”
She took them both by the shoulders and pushed them together.
Rocco felt a spark and flinched.
It’s these racing suits.
After taking a series of shots, the photographer threw up his hands. “These are awful. Maybe a change of scenery. Let’s go outside.”
Rocco leaned against the embankment with his arms crossed alongside Dario, who had joined them. They were on the outskirts of Vegas with the desert as the backdrop. It was mid-February, and they were experiencing a heat wave. It was ninety degrees out.
A slight breeze wafted past them. It should have been a relief. He was sweating pistons in this damn racing suit. But in some ways, the breeze made the heat worse because his skin could hardly welcome it before it was quickly taken away by the sun, which was relentless. It was as though he were looking forward to something that never quite arrived, because the moment it did, he was all too aware of its going.
What’s more, it was nothing like a breeze in the places he loved, like the small Italian village where he’d grown up. There was no fragrance of pine or magnolia, jasmine or lavender, olive groves or wildflowers. It didn’t carry the scent of anything. It only carried sand, which made his skin feel gritty. Rocco guessed that was because there was nothing for the breeze to grab hold of. As far as he knew, cacti had no scent.
“Why the hell did I agree to this?” he grumbled.
“You tell me,” Dario said. “You could have said no. You did say no. Until you didn’t. Why is that, by the way?”
“Okay, we’re ready!” the photographer’s assistant cried.
Rocco walked over to the car where Nico was waiting.
“I don’t know why you agreed to do this,” she hissed.
“Me? What about you?”
“I saidyesfirst, with the understanding that I’d be doing it alone. You knew I’d be doing it, so why didn’t you sayno?”
He hadn’t liked it when Dario had asked him the question. He liked it even less when she did.
“Why did you agree to do it at all?” he growled. “Haven’t you had enough exposure?”
Her brow wrinkled.
He sighed. “Have you not seen the photos posted of that coffee delivery of yours? Seen all the comments?”
Her eyes flashed. If she could shoot laser beams from them, they would have extinguished him on the spot.
“I didn’t post those photos,” she spat. “Nor did I make any of those comments. And might I remind you what my doing that coffee delivery was in response to?Yourtweet. So, if there’s anyone here who shouldn’t be looking for more exposure”—she lifted her finger and poked his chest—“it’syou.”
Why should that jab send a twitch that developed into a tingle settling in his groin?
“Yeah,” he said, doing his best to turn that twitch into a shrug, “but those were just words. It’s nothing like an image of—”
“You’re in the photos too!”
He stared into those dark eyes glaring back at him, and an image ofthephoto, the one that everyone was talking about, flashed before him. He recollected his discussion with Dario. He drew a deep breath and adopted a cool tone.
“Yeah, but I’m not bending over.”
Her eyes gaped, and her mouth followed in quick succession. “I wouldn’t have beenbending overif you would’ve stood up.”
“Okay,” the photographer cried, “now I got some good stuff. Give me a moment, I need to put in a new roll.”
