Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
She studies me like she enjoys the question, or maybe making me wait for her answer. Finally, she gives a flirty shrug. “There might be a glare but I can edit it out. They’re too sexy to take off.”
I don’t smile nearly as broadly as I want to. “I knew I’d appreciate your opinions.”
“Well, then.” She holds the door open. “Come in and stay a while.”
“I think I will.”
I step inside and look around.
Wow.
This isn’t a date, but it’s the perfect setting for one. From the bed at the center with its satiny duvet to the sapphire blue chaise longue to the ruby red chair and white, fluffy rug, the studio oozes sensual vibes.
And if there were ever a better wingman than this studio—or wingwoman—I wouldn’t believe it.
4
STOP THINKING OF ARTICHOKES AND HOT MEN
Leighton
I have the feeling that Birdie is up to something. It couldn’t be that she sent her ridiculously hot grandson to be an underwear stand-in. Not a random grandson, either, but the guy who was this close to asking me out the last time we crossed paths.
As someone who adores her own Grams, I have mad respect for this level of matchmaking puppetry.
Only I don’t have time for it right now. Katrina will be here in twenty minutes, and this shoot is too important for me to get lost in the flirting zone with this hot chef with his hot, thigh-hugging jeans, and the shirt sleeves that can’t hide the breadth of his biceps or the strength of his shoulders. The rolled cuffs reveal a leather bracelet and a tattoo of an arrow on the fair skin of his muscular forearm. He looks strong for a chef. Must be all those cast-iron skillets he lifts. Yes, this man can cook me artichokes anytime.
Stop thinking of artichokes and hot men.
I shake off thoughts of two of my favorite things and get down to brass tacks.
“Birdie told you about the shoot?” I’d bet she didn’t disclose much.
“She said you’re a boudoir photographer,” Miles says, gesturing to the studio space, with its bed and plush furniture meant to showcase sensuality and luxury. “But I can pick up the context clues too.”
I toss him a look. Hush Hush studio is run by a more seasoned photographer who is, of course, not here at the moment because I’ve booked it for the rest of the day. But he doesn’t need the details of just how new I am to the job. I’ve got a few gigs under my belt as well as my assistant work. And, really, I am a boudoir photographer, though it’s not all I shoot.
I gesture to the emerald velvet curtains, then the red satin sheets. “Did something give it away?” I ask innocently, looking at him when I talk. I find that often trains people to do the same for me, before I know them well enough to ask them to look my way. It’s a tricky balance since some men misread prolonged eye contact. But if I don’t look at him, I might miss something he says. My hearing loss is only moderate, so I can hear well enough but it’s still helpful to see someone’s facial expressions and their lips moving as they talk. Those details can fill in the gaps with softer sounds that are harder to hear.
There’s nothing soft about Miles though. Not his body, or his words as he tips his forehead toward the obvious centerpiece of the room—the ruby red velvet chair. “Hard to say. Probably just a vibe,” he says, coolly, casually, but with that undercurrent of sex in his voice.
And loss or no loss, I can hear and read his tone perfectly.
Come to think of it, there’s always been a hint of sex in his voice. And it’s dangerous—the gravel in his tone sends a charge through me. He doesn’t talk like a guy my age. Like a twenty-three-year-old dude bro who sends thirst traps of himself in gray sweatpants with pecs that move on their own. Miles talks like a man, with a little mileage on him, and the knowledge that comes with experience.
I turn away from him so I don’t get swept up in this lust. “I should finish setting up.”
“Can I help?” he asks, and he’s close enough that I can still hear him.
“I’m good, but walk with me, and I’ll give you the details.” I tell him a little about my boudoir style—empowering and focused on making her feel beautiful—as I adjust the lighting, then head to the dressing room where I’ve set up a wardrobe. Katrina’s bringing her own outfits, but I always keep options on hand—silky robes, lace, stockings, dress shirts. I have plenty of those, along with a dozen pairs of black heels in every size.
“So, here’s the plan for today,” I say as I wrap up the tour.