Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(24)
If you’re a big-butt girl, nobody made you feel it was alright to have a big butt better than J. Lo. So when I booked this shoot, I was inspired by the pics she took for Ben Affleck, except I didn’t go that far. I’m wearing white boy shorts with a lacy behind, and my back is bare, with my dark hair loose and curly and reaching to the small of my back, and I’m mostly in profile except for one shot where I turned to ask something of the photographer and she snapped the camera.
I don’t like that one, I look unaware and…naked. Even with my boy shorts.
I don’t think I look that sexy, but I’ve spent all my Black Friday commissions on the shoot.
“Which one would a guy react to more strongly?” I ask him as I spread them out.
He scans them all with a quick sweep of his gaze, looking thoughtful. “Just one?”
“Yup.”
Frowning, he points toward all of them with a motion of his hand. “I’m supposed to like one better?”
“Yes! Don’t be obtuse. Oh, but not this one.” I push it aside. It’s the picture that included my face. I’m not photogenic. I don’t like pictures of my face.
Stroking his chin, he looks at me carefully. He picks up each photo and studies it for a long moment. His eyes have never looked so blue.
“Who took these?”
“Taylor Watts.”
His voice is oddly textured. “That a guy or a girl?”
I’m confused. Does it matter? “Girl.”
His face is unreadable, but almost imperceptibly, he relaxes his shoulders as he studies the pictures again. “This one.”
The one I’m most covered in?
“Are you certain?”
“Dead certain.” He taps it with his finger. “This one.”
“But it’s not the one in which I look sexiest, in my opinion.”
He just looks at me as if I’m stupid. “You look like sheet-clawing sex in all of them.”
His comment is so forthright and matter-of-fact, my knees nearly buckle.
“So what is he getting you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” It isn’t until I speak that I realize my voice came out a little too wispy.
He nods at the pictures. “You’re giving him a gorgeous picture of yourself, what’s he giving you?”
“I told him chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” he says flatly. “Really.”
“Yup. Anything chocolate totally wins me over.”
I gather the pics and carefully slip them back into the envelope.
“He hasn’t answered my calls,” I whisper.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers back.
I glance up at him in confusion. “I feel like I’m screwing it up, Tahoe. Like there’s something about me that just can’t…make it work with a guy.”
“You’re not screwing it up. How can you, Regina? You’re too good for the guy.”
“Relationships take effort! Which is why you choose not to be in one, am I right? Cause you can’t be bothered.”
“Pass me the phone, I’ll have words with him.” His hand comes down over mine as he tries to take my phone.
I draw back, instinctively leaping at the electricity his touch provoked. “Haha, what kind of words?”
“Like he needs to call you, or he’ll have to deal with me. I’ll tell him if I wanted you to get all fucked up over a guy, you’d be dating me.”
“You don’t date, remember? You’re a ladies’ man. Of many ladies, and you don’t think you can stop or else you’d at least try to get serious with one.”
“I have nothing to offer her. I’m not what a one-man woman needs.”
Silence.
He stretches out his hand. “Give me the phone, I’m calling him.”
“You are doing no such thing.”
“Tell me one good thing that you see in him and I won’t call.”
“He’s not a ladies’ man.” I grin as I gather my pictures and head to the door. “Thanks, T-Rex.”
I arrive at my apartment shortly afterward and head straight for the fridge to make myself a sandwich. As I take my first bite, I turn over the manila envelope and skim the pictures again. Only seven pictures slide onto my kitchen counter.
I tap the envelope against the edge, then lower my sandwich and peer inside. Empty.
I call Tahoe’s cell. “Did I lose a pic at your office?”
“Negative,” he says lazily, as if he’s got his feet up on his desk or on the couch or somewhere.
The news doesn’t make me happy.
“It must have fallen out,” I groan, then thank him and hang up. I have a momentary panic when I think about that picture appearing somewhere on some playboy site. My worst pic, too—somewhere out there. Then I shake the thought aside, pray that it won’t fall into the wrong hands, and turn over the picture Tahoe suggested I send to Trent. With a red magic marker, I scribble on the back,