Watching, a reluctant Rocco agreed.
Dario was so damn handsome, and she was—
Not beautiful. No. Not beautiful.
Not even pretty, he told himself stubbornly.
But damn if her face doesn’t command attention when you look at it.
“Hey!” Celeste cried, nudging him hard. “What planet are you on?”
Rocco looked over at her with a blank stare.
She looked annoyed, held out her arm, and glanced over at the car where Nico was standing. Alone. What happened to Dario? That’s when Rocco realized he was standing behind Celeste.
When Rocco didn’t move, Celeste muttered under her breath. “Get your ass over there now, Rocco. You said you wanted to do this. Don’t think we’re just going to up and quit because you haven’t budged after the photographer shouted your name three times.”
Three times? Three? Times?
The photographer’s assistant grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the car, planting him beside Nico.
Once she’d walked away, Nico spoke quietly, barely moving her lips and without glancing at him. “Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do. So, let’s just get it over with. Quick.”
“Right. The sooner the better.”
“Finally, something we agree on.”
But it didn’t go quick. Whatever they did—the way they stood, the way they looked at each other, the way they looked even when they didn’t look at each other—all of it was wrong.
It was a complete disaster. If the assistant wasn’t pushing Rocco to get closer to Nico, she was pushing Nico to get closer to him. You would have thought they were manufacturing epic farts the way they both steered clear of each other.
The only thing mildly pleasant was that occasional breeze, because now there was a hint of something beyond sand—a heady scent that he had to attribute to her, much as he didn’t want to.
It had to be her. He only smelled it when she was near.
It reminded him of that woman at the bar. But, he thought, it had to be different.
Has to be.
And yet it had that same heavy way of landing in his body.
He would have thought something heavy would scorch his nose, give him a headache. This didn’t. It was like the air itself.
The air itself? What does that even mean? Clearly, the heat is frying my brain.
But it was there. Something. Was there.
The heavy suit he was wearing didn’t help matters. He could feel tracks of sweat racing down his flesh and pooling under his arms and in his groin, forming lakes that had begun to make his skin itch.
And yet that scent, whatever the hell it was, was welcome.
The only thing that is.
I just wish it came from some other woman.
This photoshoot was probably even worse for her. There’s no way he could be smelling good. Not the way he was sweating.
These photos were bound to be awful. The good thing about that—they wouldn’t publish any of them.
