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“Let’s get you two back to back.” The photographer made a spinning motion with his hand. “Can we get them both a ball?”
He tore his gaze from the top of her head and turned away from her, waiting.
“Move in.” The photographer waved them closer. “You know, back to back?”
Condescending son of a bitch.
“I don’t think we’ll be back to back.” Emmy spoke up. “He’s a good foot taller than me. More like his shoulder to my, what, head?”
There was laughter from those watching.
The photographer did not. “Fine. That. Do that.” A few clicks and he stood. “Good. Give me a minute.”
“Someone needs more coffee.” She said it under her breath, but he heard her.
He hadn’t meant to react. But he did. He tried covering his chuckle with a forceful throat clearing. It didn’t work. If it had, she wouldn’t be staring up at him in surprise.
Her smile hadn’t changed. She was still beautiful. On the outside, maybe. The inside? He shook his head, forcing his attention elsewhere. Anywhere else.
“How about we do something different?” The photographer was smiling now. “We found a few pictures from your homecoming game and dance. We want to re-create those. It’s the sort of thing fans will go crazy over.”
Not just no—hell no.
But he could hear C
onnie, his agent, in his head then: Never pass up a chance to make your fans love you. They want to—so give them a reason. He was pretty sure this was one of those times. Connie would eat this up. If he said no? Walked out? That wouldn’t go over well.
If he’d learned one thing from the clusterfuck that had been the last couple of years of his life, it was to listen to Connie. More of his fall from grace had been public knowledge than he’d liked. But she had been there, putting out fires and shutting down stories before they made it to print. Without her, things could have been ten times worse. Maybe more.
The big endorsements he was up for? She’d busted her ass to get them for him. After all he’d put her through, he owed her. A hell of a lot. He owed her everything—including this. Was reliving high school memories with Emmy Lou a damn hard pill to swallow? Yes. Would he force the damn pill down? Yes, he would. Even if it choked him.
“Fine.” The word erupted, hard and loud and making sure everyone in the room knew he wasn’t happy about any of this.
“Great.” Was it his imagination or did the asshole photographer look like he was enjoying himself? “Let’s start with the traditional pose. You know, the prom pose? Brock, stand behind her. Emmy, back to his front. Brock, arms around her. And both of you facing me. You two can hold the football.”
“Not to question the creative direction you’re going with, but what does this have to do with football?” Travis King asked. “Or being drug free?”
Brock couldn’t agree more, but his jaw was locked tight—to prevent him from saying a damn thing.
“We’re trying to reach as many kids as possible, Mr. King.” Shalene Fowler was all calm diplomacy. “Not all of the students we interact with are football fans. Some are Three Kings fans. Even more are Emmy Lou King fans. Your sister is recognizable to ninety percent of the under eighteen crowd. Homecoming, school dances—they’re part of the teenage experience. And teenagers are a large part of the at-risk population.”
Which immediately made Brock feel like an ass. His childhood had been pretty golden. Even after his mother had left, he’d had his father and aunt and their unwavering support and love. He’d had every opportunity.
“We feel strongly that these playful pictures will gain a larger audience—and provide a more personal connection. Especially since they did go to homecoming together.” Shalene paused, turning her focus to him and Emmy Lou. “Of course, if you two would rather not, we can skip them.”
Skipping them would be his first choice. But after Shalene’s explanation, he kept his jaw clenched and his lips pressed shut.
“That’s why we’re here.” Emmy Lou didn’t look at him. “Right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring on the cheesy homecoming pose.” And just like that, the tension in the room dissipated and they assumed their pose.
For the next five minutes, Brock ran plays in his head. Better to imagine tackling some self-righteous quarterback than acknowledging Emmy Lou in his arms, pressed against him. If he was reviewing runs and blocks, maybe he’d be less aware of her head—just below his chin—and the scent of her hair. Citrus? Grapefruit? Something like that. Light and fresh and all too familiar. Distracting as hell.
The camera kept clicking away.
He changed tactics, trying to remember the calendar updates he’d received from Connie this morning. A late-night television spot. An endorsement deal meeting with Alpha Menswear. Something about a date change for the DFLM kickoff event. Not that he could remember either date—the original or the new one. Especially now that the photographer’s assistant had stepped up and rearranged their hands. Now Emmy’s hands were covering his, which were holding the football.
More clicks and flashes and the slight pressure of her hands against his.
He smothered a sigh, his fingers digging into the roughened surface of the ball. The slight movement caused her fingers to slide between his, threading them together, and snapping some sort of mental tripwire. Flashes of memory assaulted him, rapid-fire and bittersweet. He and Emmy, the feel of her in his arms, the press of her hands on his bare back, the cling of her lips on his, the soft hitch in her breath when things got carried away between the two of them… She tossed her head, one of her long curls sliding slowly across his forearm and reminding him of all the things wrong with this whole damn photo shoot. His jaw was so tight it ached.
