Page 5 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“It’s my fault, sir. I’m sorry. Lila didn’t know I was auditioning for this job. She was just…surprised.”
I make the mistake of meeting her gaze—a gaze I’m prone to getting lost in—and receive an expected eye roll from her. Got it. She doesn’t need my help. She doesn’t want me to do anything. In fact, the only thing she wants me to do is to take a long walk off a short pier.
He seems rather unconvinced, though Rebecca swoops in and saves my ass by changing the subject.
“Alright, let’s get on with the chemistry shoot so that our art director, Makayla, can take a look at you two.” She gestures to the mock photoshoot set up in the back of the room, complete with a colorless backdrop, lights strong enough to give me one of those cluster headaches, and a sleek, black camera positioned at the forefront.
Both Lila and I are shepherded over as the art director—an elegant woman on the far end of the casting table—clacks over in her stilettos to join us. I’m so out of my comfort zone right now. I’ve never modeled before, if that wasn’t clear enough. Acting isn’t a huge factor in sports, but this is Lila’s forte. She’s a beast when it comes to these kinds of things.
“Alright, you two. We’re going for sexy, yeah? I’ll throw out some instructions and take a couple photos, and then I’ll regroup with the team. Sound good?”
Lila’s as still as a goddamn chicken when it senses danger, and I’m no better. It’s also like ten times hotter in here than itwas thirty seconds ago. We both shuffle over to our mark at a freakishly slow pace, being diligent enough to evade each other’s eyes while we do so, and then everything bellies up.
“Sexy, guys! Sensual! I want to see hands on bodies!” Every shout and direction, no matter how loud, doesn’t take precedence over the nerves flaying me from head to toe, shining a very bright spotlight on my skill deficiency. Oh, God. I wasn’t prepared for this today. We haven’t touched each other since we were together.
At first, my gentleman instincts kick in and order my hands to stay respectfully on Lila’s hips, but a firmly worded disapproval comes from Makayla’s end. “Hold her like you can’t keep your hands off her, Bristol. You need to be closer to her.”
I glance at the position of our bodies, and we’re about three light years away from making skin-to-skin contact with one another.
“Do what she says!” Lila whisper-hisses, slipping in front of me so that her ass is fully seated against my crotch—which is, um, oh,oh, God. She crooks her neck up to look at me, arches her back, and leaves her arms at her sides for me to…hold? I think?
“Lean down. Like we’re about to kiss. Jesus, and do something with your hands.”
If my stomach wasn’t trying to revolt my chicken wrap from lunch, I would snap back with some witty—and highly suggestive—comment about the situation we’re in. But my professionalism is hanging on by a thin thread, and if I don’t prove to Kitty’s Catwalk that we have enough chemistry to make a baby, then I can say goodbye to this job. And this job is the only way I’ll get any alone time with Lila.
I do as Lila says, opting to hold her hands, and I angle my head down so we’re mere inches apart from partaking in someheavy-duty tongue action. If we wanted. Not that…not that she’deverwant that.
Yells and camera clicks mushroom into the air, but surprisingly, they’re not loud enough to derail my current train of thought—which is headed straight for Lilaville at breakneck speed.
“Ugh, your breath stinks,” Lila snarks.
Excuse me?“I popped a piece of gum before coming here.”
“And yet itstillstinks.”
I grunt. “Yeah, well, your hands are clammy.”
“They’re only clammy becauseyourhands are sweaty!” She glares at me, the low rumbling in her throat making my palms, ironically, even more slick with moisture.
Sweaty palms are the least of my worries right now because if we don’t change positions soon, the lower half of me is going to think we’re taking one hell of a trip down memory lane.
God, I forgot how amazing it felt to be this close to her. I forgot how good she smelled. Her skin is still as soft as ever, and I think those irresistible curves of hers are going to be the death of me.
Muscle memory seizes me at the worst moment because I drag my nose along the length of her neck, only half-consciously aware that she’ll probably stab her acrylics into my eyeballs the moment the photoshoot ends. But in some topsy-turvy turn of events, she plays up the sensuality, tipping her head back in—gasp, I know—pleasure. I don’t care if it’s an act.
“Alright! Give us a few minutes to discuss how the pictures turned out,” the art director says, beckoning her colleagues over.
Lila smooths down her dress in distaste, as if she’s brushing off my germs. “You better not have blown this for me,” she growls under her breath.
“Please, anyone with two working eyes can tell that we have chemistry together,” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest.Luckily for me, I don’t miss how her eyes latch onto the bulge of my pecs. I’m not sure if it’s because of California’s dry-ass weather or a carnal appetite that’s grown since we both entered the studio, but she licks her lips. Hungry, unsatiated.
Her nose crinkles. “Yeah. Because I was doing all the hard work.”
“I’m pretty sure it was a joint effort.”
“Actually, it wasn’t. You had the sex appeal of a dead fish.”
Seriously? I didnothave the sex appeal of a dead fish, and she knows that. If my sex appeal was so “nonexistent,” then why was her ass crack practically superglued to my dick?
