Because, damn. Tyler Stone is a fucking good photographer.
I don’t like many pictures of myself, but I like these. Somehow, through the awkwardness of seeing each other again and that raging sexual tension that basically had me wet the whole shoot, we somehow managed to get some incredible pictures.
After flicking through the ‘maybe’ pile, we pick four photos and add them to the ‘yes’ one. Satisfied, I take a long drink from my water while Sheila organizes the pictures.
“Right, this shoot. It’s for Balfour, a new swimwear company. This is their first major campaign and they’re using the advertising department to make a few waves. Now, if they select you and the first shoot goes well, there’s the potential to become the face of the company.”
My head spins—in a good way. “Okay. Where will the shoot be?”
“The first shoot, the test shoot, will be in a studio here in Seattle. Probably one of ours. If they like the test, then you’ll go to California for the real one.” She shuffles some papers and turns to her laptop. “Are you interested?”
Am I interested? Hell yes. “Absolutely. Will you send them images from last summer’s shoot?”
Sheila nods once. “Yes, and a few studio lingerie shots. All your swimwear shoots are on location, so they need a feel for you in a studio. I’ll put together a portfolio this week and mail you a copy at the weekend so you can look through it before I send it.”
“Great.”
We say our goodbyes and I leave her office, ignoring Clara on my way out. The chilly breeze is now a biting cold as clouds roll overhead, and the temperature seems even lower after coming out from the warmth of the building. Still, I pause just outside and whip my phone from my bra. The security guard gives me a funny look. I grin.
The pictures were great. Thank you,
I text to Tyler. Hey, he’s an asshole and he pisses me the hell off, but they were great. I can be nice to him if I want to be.
I told you they were incredible. I’m happy to stare at you in underwear if you want to repeat it.
And there goes my nice mood.
You’re a prick.
I tuck my phone back inside my bra and run toward my apartment. Sometimes, I’m glad I live downtown. Friday and Saturday nights aren’t those times, but on a Monday when it’s about to rain, I’m definitely happy I do.
I pick up the pace when a few odd drops of rain fall on my face. Somehow, I make it back to my apartment block before it comes down full force. It pelts the windows as I make my way upstairs, forgoing the elevator in favor of fitness.
Yeah, you can bet your ass I’m having takeout tonight.
“Where have you been?” Sean walks into my apartment without knocking.
“Seriously? I could have been naked in here.” I look at him from my position on the couch. And it’s not a lie. Given my seriously erotic dream about a certain photographer last night that involved our mouths, certain parts of our bodies, and possibly a scarf and my bedposts, the temptation to be tucked up in bed with my vibrator—again—is almost overwhelming.
“Do you regularly watch TV naked, lying on the sofa, with one of your legs hooked over the back?”
“Perhaps I do.” I swing my legs around and sit up, patting the space next to me. “What’s in the bag?”
“A new pair of shoes.”
“For me?”
“No, darling, I regularly bring myself home five-inch heels.”
I gasp and reach for the bag. Sean shakes his head, holding it away from me.
Sean shakes his head, holding it away from me. “Do you have wine?”
“Seriously? You’re bribing me?”
“Liv, these are one-thousand-dollar shoes. If you can’t manage a glass of wine, then we’re reevaluating our friendship, darling.”
I roll my eyes and sigh, but my insides are buzzing with excitement. I love shoes. I love shoes like Dayton loves lingerie. They’re my guilty pleasure—the one addiction I allow myself to indulge in. And Sean, being a sales assistant at Arabella’s, the hottest shoe store in Seattle, adds to my indulgence whenever he can.
After all, he works in a female shoe store. Not even he can get away with those shoes. So last season’s styles and samples at a huge discount come right my way.
I put two glasses of wine on the coffee table and sit down. “Gimmee gimmee gimmee!” I punctuate each word with a bounce.
Sean, the bastard, grabs his wine and sips it slowly, grinning before handing me the bag.
I dive into it the way a candy-deprived kid would attack Wonka’s Nerds. And I gasp when I open the box. Oh my God. “Sean! These are new season Louboutins! How? Why? I mean, what?”