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Who gave him permission to look that tall and elegant?
Who gave him permission to style his hair like that? Like a… freaking Clark Kent without the nerdy glasses?
Who gave him permission to wear that easy, debonair smile that convinces people he could be their friend even if they’re street vendors and he’s a billionaire?
The light around him does that ridiculous thing again, turning extra bright and extra golden. I blink and it doesn’t change. I want to rub my eyes, but that would mess up my makeup. Should I go see an eye doctor?
Dare starts to sign to me and I turn away abruptly.
It’s rude.
Incredibly rude.
If I’d done that to a deaf person, I…
Dishonor.
Shame.
It’s the biggest insult.
But Dare is hearing.
Hearing.
And thus, I can be rude if I want.
I stomp wordlessly to the set. A luxurious green couch with a textured wallpaper background serves as our props.
The photographer has us standing at first. Jenny signs out his instructions.
“Closer,” she signs, mimicking the director’s frazzled expressions. “You need to stand closer.”
I move an inch toward Sullivan, stiff as a rock.
The director shakes his head.
Dare sets his hand on my waist.
The thrumming heat of his fingers sears through to my skin. I need to be professional. Icanbe professional.
I’ve done this before.
This is nothing.
He is nothing.
I mean, not as a person.
Everyone is something to somebody.
And Dare Sullivan has worth as a human being. Sure. Even if he is a cocky billionaire with eyes like smoky quartz, large, beautiful hands, a million-dollar smile…
But still. He’s nothingto me.
Nothing to get so frantic about.
Dare grips my arm, an eyebrow arched.Are you okay?
