Page 30 of Best Wrong Thing

“You must be tired.”

“Yes.”

“I’m never as peppy when I’m tired.”

He offers me a grateful smile, which he banishes as the photographer steps out of the studio.

“Ah, you’re all here. Would you like to come inside?”

We follow him into the studio. The photographer, Mum, and Barry discuss the shots they’d like while Jacob and I stand to one side.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

I scuff the floor with my shoe. “So…how have you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Also fine.”

“This is awkward,” we say simultaneously. We laugh.

“It’s so lovely to see you two getting along.” Mum walks over to us.

I sober instantly. Jacob straightens his back. Tension tightens his shoulders.

“We’re going to do lots of group poses. Make sure you smile.” She pinches my cheek.

I step back. Jacob is already iffy about being older than me without Mum treating me like a child. Does he still care that I’m younger than him, or has the whole stepbrother thing eclipsed that worry?

The photographer ushers us into various fake poses. For most shots, Jacob and I stand so close our shoulders and arms brush. Every time they do, a jolt of static electricity runs over my skin, and my thoughts rush back to my fantasy of kissing him in the rain. The upside is I’m smiling at the daydream. The downside is I’m low-key freaking out that I might develop a hard-on, which would be embarrassing and impossible to explain.

After a tension-filled hour, we follow the photographer to a smaller room with a desk, computer, and two plush two-seater sofas. Mum and Barry take one, leaving Jacob and me to perch on the other. Even though we sit as far to each side as possible, our thighs still brush. The photographer starts a slideshow of the raw, unedited photos so that we can pick our favourites. Correction: so Mum and Barry can pick their favourites. Correction of the correction: so Mum can pick her favourites.

It’s probably a good thing I’m not part of the decision-making process because I only gawp at how damned adorable Jacob is in every shot. His chaotic hair. His luscious lips. His friendly eyes. His warm smile. And his stubble, which felt delightful scraping across my chin and jaw as he kissed me. In my hall. In my bed. In the lift at the hotel. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I get Jacob Hart out of my fucking head?

“That’s the one. Don’t you agree, Barry?” Mum asks.

“I like that one,” he says.

“Wonderful. We want three copies in frames, please.”

“Three copies?” Jacob asks.

“Yes. One for our house, one for your apartment, and one for Archer’s flat.”

Jacob deflates a little. I don’t blame him. Do I want a picture of him on my wall? Why do I even ask myself that question? I’d love a picture of him on my bedroom wall. It would make great masturbation fodder. I wouldn’t mind if it were a picture of us. But a picture of us, Mum and Barry, is as sexy as a damp sponge.

Mum spends another twenty minutes choosing her favourite frame. She opts for a slim silver one. Barry pays.

Mum beams at us. “Dinner. I’ve made a reservation.”

Of course she has. I check my watch. Almost four.

“You’ve got plenty of time before you have to be at work, Archer.”

My shift starts at seven, so I don’t have that long. I get her point, though. She wants me present in body and mind so Jacob and I can become best friends. The trouble is, I’m pretty sure the path to being friends leads straight to the bedroom. Despite the way he kissed me at the wedding reception, I’m convinced it’s a path Jacob has no interest in taking.

We walk to the restaurant, Mum and Barry taking the lead while Jacob and I trail behind.