Page 9 of The Hot Shot
“The hair is too tidy,” I tell James. “I can see the comb tracks in it. Can you fix that, please?”
“The man attached to the hair can fix it himself,” Mannus says, glaring in clear irritation.
“I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “However, James is the stylist, so let’s let him do his job.”
Mannus doesn’t look away from me. “Do you like busting balls in general, or just mine?”
“Since you’re about to be standing balls out in front of me, I’d be careful, Mr. Mannus.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is strained. “Thinking about them already, are we, Ms. Copper?”
“Not really. I’ve seen three other sets today, so my mind is a bit full at the moment.”
The smug expression falls from his face.
At his side, James snickers. “I think she just said her mind is full of balls,” he says in sotto voce to Mannus. “Not that I blame her. Let’s get you ready, and you can give her another eyeful, eh?”
Mannus pales. “Already?”
He sounds surprised, which is odd, given that he’s wearing nothing more than a towel.
“Er... that’s the idea.” James makes a move to muss Mannus’s honey brown locks, and the quarterback rears like a skittish horse. James freezes, glancing at me with wide, “what the fuck” eyes.
I am thinking the same. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Mannus?”
He flinches, his gaze snapping between James and me, and his jaw goes tighter.
Anger swells hot in my chest. “Do you have an issue with James touching you?”
As soon as I say it, I’m sorry. I never throw James under the bus. And it is absolutely shitty of me to do it now. But, damn if this guy isn’t messing with my head.
Mannus frowns so hard, his brows almost touch. “What? My masseuse touches me all the time, and he’s a guy. Why the hell should I care, as long as he does his job?” He glances at James. “Why is she asking me that?”
James clearly fights a smile. “I’m thinking it’s because you’re flinching like you’re about to fly out of your skin.”
Mannus’s cheeks flush. “What?”
He looks so genuinely distracted and flustered, I pause and really study him. Sweat beads at his temples, and his pulse beats a fast tattoo at the base of his strong throat.
Hands low on his slim hips, his knuckles are white where he’s digging his fingers into the towel.
My heart gives a guilty lurch and then promptly goes soft along its hardened walls. He might have been an asshole with that One-Eyed Willie comment earlier, but he’s still my client, and I’m not doing my job well if he’s this unsettled.
I catch James’s eye. “Can you get me a coffee?” I don’t need one; it’s our agreed upon signal for James to clear out whenever we’re dealing with a panicky client.
“Sure,” he says easily. “You want anything, Mr. Mannus?”
Finn shakes his head once. “No, thanks.”
James quietly leaves, and he won’t return until I call him.
Alone with Finn, the studio space becomes unnaturally quiet. I can hear the conversations ebbing and flowing in the kitchen. I need to put the client at ease. Usually, I can do it without any problem, but that hasn’t been the case here. Finn Mannus is surprisingly hard to read.
Setting my camera down, I move to the iPad that has my music setup.
Finn watches me with a guarded expression. “Please, not the music. I will lose it if you expect me to go allZoolander.”
He sounds weary to the core, and I give him a small smile. “I’m not expecting Blue Steel from you, don’t worry. And no fast beats, I promise.”
