Page 62 of The Hot Shot

White-blond, silky hair, ice-blue eyes, tanned skin, and the kind of bone structure artists commit to marble. It’s my job to photograph women like her. Though I’ve never worked with this woman, I know who she is immediately. Britt Larson, a supermodel whose face currently graces the cover ofVogue.

She and Finn stare at each other as if nothing else exists.

It drops the bottom out of me. These two are golden people, the kind of pairing that media and fans alike eat up and sigh over.

“Britt.” Finn’s voice is a rasp.

She leans toward him, but stops, her gaze falling on me.

The back of my neck tightens. Finn flinches as if he’s forgotten I was there. I don’t blame him. If I liked women that way, I might have forgotten, too.

“Britt, this is Chess. Chess, Britt.” It sounds like he’s chewing on nails.

She gives me the barest of nods. “Hello.”

“Chess is a photographer,” Finn says, as if explaining something.

Britt’s features tighten a fraction. I’m small-time, and she knows it. “Yes. The calendar photographer. I’ve heard. Must have been a big deal getting to shoot you and your team.”

Nice.I could say something snide, but it isn’t worth it. Finn looks as if he’d rather the floor swallow him whole. He still hasn’t moved back from the door or offered to let Britt in. She stands there awkwardly, clearly at a loss, and clearly expecting more.

“I was hoping we could talk,” she says then, with another glance in my direction.

Finn straightens as if coming out of a fog. “Ah... yeah.”

His neck is so stiff, I wonder if he’s actively trying not to look my way. Enough is enough.

“I’m just headed out,” I announce, grabbing my purse and keys, both thankfully sitting on the hall console. Then I remember my phone. “Let me just get my phone...”

I jog to the kitchen, my temples throbbing.

Finn and Britt haven’t moved from their spots by the door. But Finn frowns my way. “You don’t have to—” He shuts his mouth abruptly, then grimaces. “Thanks, Chess.”

The apology in his eyes irks. The hell if I’ll let him see that. I give Britt what I hope is a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” she says with about as much sincerity.

She’s going to eat my cheese.

I hate her.

I leave without looking back.

Ten

Finn

My feet seem to have grown roots. I can’t make them move. My body is one dull throb of old pain and new shock. Dimly, I take note of Chess walking out, her dark, glossy hair swaying like an agitated flag down her back.

Don’t go.

I want to call her back. It would be easier that way. I could shut the door on Britt’s face and tuck Chess back against my side. But that’s the coward’s way out.

Britt makes a small sound, and I snap out of my fog. My parents taught me better than this.

“Come in.” I step back to let her pass.

She leaves a trail of expensive and too-flowery perfume. That scent stuck to my skin and gave me a headache when I’d fucked her.