Page 20 of The Hot Shot

“Well...” My voice trails off.

The impact of Finn Mannus is immense. It’s not the way he looks, although he is certainly blessed there; it’s the intensity of his focus, as if you are the most important thing in this golden god’s world. An illusion, but no less potent.

And no less awkward when our stare stretches on, neither of us saying another word.

He looks at me as though he knows exactly what’s going on in my head; which is funny, since I don’t have a clue. I don’t want to leave this spot, and yet I don’t want to invite him in either.

And he isn’t exactly asking to come up. Irritation swells within my chest. For the first time in ages, I’m dithering.

“So,” I say through stiff lips. “Thank you and good night.”

That smile of his returns. The one that’s slow and easy. The one that graces billboards and sells millions in athletic wear. “It’s gonna be like that, huh?” he teases. “No, ‘see you around’ or ‘let’s have lunch.’ Just ‘bye’?”

I’m facing down the man equivalent of devil’s food cake. But years of shitty hookups and bad dates have given me strength. “I also said thank you.”

The lines of his face go tight for a second, and I wonder if I’m seeing disappointment. “You’re welcome, Chess.” He takes a step back, already becoming part of pedestrian traffic. “Sleep well.”

I go into my building and don’t look back. But I want to.

My day doesn’t go well. At all. I’d tossed and turned all night long, finally falling asleep when the sky had turned dove gray. Having forgotten my phone in my purse, I overslept, not hearing my wake-up alarm. Which means I’m not able to take a shower before James arrives and, right after him, the next groupof football players I’m supposed to shoot. So I’m stuck with lank hair and a stiff neck from sleeping the wrong way.

James somehow manages to knock over a light, breaking it and putting me out of several hundred dollars. He’s so upset, I can’t find it in myself to do more than pat his shoulder and refuse to let him pay for it.

The guys I’m photographing are nice and cooperative, which should put me in a better mood, but somehow it makes it worse. They remind me of Mannus. How can they not? These are his teammates, his friends. Every joke they toss out, every good-natured chuckle and charming smile they send my way, makes me think of him.

I imagine how he’d joke with them. How he’d take up the space in the room without even moving a muscle. The sad truth is he’s doing that without even being here.

I don’twantto think about him. But the man must have witchcraft in his veins, because he’s managed to haunt me after only one day of knowing him.

Worse, I feel wrong for having left him at my doorstep last night. It’s ridiculous. He probably forgot about me before he even reached his home. We hung out for a few hours, made each other laugh. That’s it. Move on.

One of the guys, a big wall of man flesh named Carson, idly jokes that if Manny oiled up for games, it would make him harder to tackle and, thus, his job easier.

Dubois, another offensive lineman, tsks at Carson. “Manny already is a slippery motherfucker. You just want to see him oiled up.”

Don’t we all?

I drop my camera. On my toes. “Shit!” I bend down to inspect my camera, thanking the gods that my poor throbbing toes spared it from damage.

Neither of the guys notice.

“Oil this.” Carson grabs his crotch, now thankfully clothed, and hefts his handful.

“No one is oiling anyone oranythingbut me,” James announces, which makes them all blush and stammer.

Foot hurting, muscles aching, I do my job, hoping to get everyone out of my house as soon as possible. But it’s not until five in the afternoon that I’m alone.

Finally.

Except, for the cherry on top of my shitcake day, I get my period aweekearly, and don’t have enough tampons left to get me through it.

Grumbling, I toss on some black lounge pants and my oversize Tulane T-shirt and head to the drugstore.

My head throbs by the time I get there, and my insides are writhing. I rest my hand against my lower stomach and grab a basket before calling James to complain.

“I swear,” I tell him as I grab a bottle of painkillers. “It’s like this entire day has been cursed.”

He snickers. “Curse. Get it? The Curse?”