Holland: What’s the charity?
Claire: It wasn’t listed.
Claire: Can I get an update on my leftovers?
Holland: You know what…I’m placing a brand-new order right now. You deserve fresh sweet and sour chicken (I’m also pretty sure Rosco ate yours for breakfast…just for that, he’s footing the bill and we’re getting spring rolls.)
Holland: And I’m making cookies.
Claire: Is there something you’re not telling me?
Holland: What? Of course not. Whatever do you mean?
Before I can interrogate my roommate, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Tossing my phone in my bag, I stand and gather my camera equipment. I’m banking on the hope that whoever’s trooping down the steps is the person I’m waiting for, and they’ve got the key. Since there was no description of the organization, I can’t say I have any expectations, but when I see Ollie Jablonski and Bran Mikalski strut across the room in medieval garb, it’s safe to say that was not on my BINGO card.
“Claire, you made it,” Ollie says, like I’m the one who’s three minutes late. “Jenksy’s got the key, but he’s right behind us.”
“You’re not a charity,” I blurt.
Ollie flashes a dazzling smile. “Damn right, I’m not.But our housing fund is. Jenksy, you get lost?” he calls, turning toward the staircase.
Justin Jenkins slowly makes his way down the steps and across the room. This guy’s so chill it’s like he’s moving in reverse. Maybe he saves all his energy for the ice. When he sees that I’m the photographer, he starts moving at an even slower pace. Just when I’m about to pluck the damn key out of his hand, he twists it in the lock and the door swings open. The space is sparse, but clean, and there’s plenty of room for me to set up my tripod and lights. I’m just not sure I should. “Did you get approval for this?” I ask Ollie.
He shrugs noncommittally in response. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”
I sigh and begin unloading my gear. It’s probably a waste of time because I doubt the hockey team’s housing fund counts as a charity, but that’s not my call to make. This gig was on my task list, so I’ll snap some photos and be on my way.
Ollie, Mickey, and Jensky stroll back in and dump another load of boxes. How many photos do they think I’ll need to take? Is this a five year calendar or something?
“Okay,” Ollie says, “I think we’re just about ready to start. We just need to change our clothes, and Jenksy, can you bring in the fish tank?”
The taller man looks nervous. “The fishtank? I thought you said we didn’t need it?”
“I said wedidneed it,” he says, sighing as he turns to me. “We’ll be back in five, I swear.”
I don’t even argue. I just sit back down on my bench to wait. I’m halfway through an article inThe Prentiss Reportwhen I notice an imposing figure standing by the door.
And it’s not just any old figure. It’s a sexy-as-hell one I remember all too well.
“Your teammates went to get a fish tank, so the shoot’sgoing to start late,” I tell Pete, barely looking up from my phone. That man is just too damn tempting so instead of drooling on myself, I’m doing my best not to look at him.
“I’m not on the schedule for pictures tonight,” he says, folding his muscular arms across his chest.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” I ran out of patience hours ago, not that I had much to begin with, so I don’t even try to censor the words before they leave my mouth. “I’m entirely capable of doing my job without you mansplaining photography to me.”
He smiles, and I swear I see a dimple peeking out from beneath his beard. “I know fuckall about photography. But I’d be happy to fill you in on what mansplaining is. I’ll simplify it for you, obviously.”
Damn him and his stupid charm. I roll my eyes to keep from grinning. “Thanks. So back to what the hell are you here for? Wait. Are you, like, my bodyguard?”
Instead of answering me, he puffs out his chest. “You think I couldn’t be a bodyguard?”
“You know you could,” I answer. “Your picture comes up under a google search ofhot bouncer porn. Alsosexy lumbersnack porn.” I’m not flirting with the man. I just don’t see any sense in lying.
“Good to know,” he says, like he’s filing this info away.
I unwind my long hair from its sloppy ponytail just to thread the strands through the elastic one more time. “Seriously, if you’re here to protect me, kindly fuck off. I can take care of myself. And for what it’s worth, if you think your teammates need a supervisor, then you’re leading a team of assholes.”
Pete’s unfazed. “Oh, they one hundred percent need a supervisor. And they’re not assholes. They’re good people. Still, that doesn’t mean someone won’t get their head caught in a stair rail or manage to light the place on fire.And yes, both of those things have happened in the last year.Besides, it’s not my guys I’m worried about.”
