Why do photographers insist on putting her in his lap? The guy from Vanity Fair had her wrapping her legs around him, though her posture screamed how uncomfortable she was doing it. Now, she perches on his thighs with his hands splayed at her waist, and then he leans her back like he’s about to kiss her. My entire body is rigid with irritation. The audible photographer instructions would negate this if I wasn’t imagining—if I didn’t know—that they’ve done this before, in private. All illusions that I’m keeping these deliberations under control are shattered when Brooke leans closer, her brow knit, and whispers, “You okay?”
I nod, failing at pretending to be unconcerned as Reid pulls Emma up and turns her so that she’s facing out from him, her legs straddling one of his. His arms are wrapped around her, his head on her bare shoulder, their faces jammed together as the photographer hops around, babbling words like sexy and hot and baby. Is this photo shoot for a PG-13 movie, or an ad for high-priced escort services?
Emma’s eyes find me and her gaze immediately falls to my thigh, where Brooke’s hand sits. She stares, puzzled, her brows furrowing until the photographer asks her in an annoyed whine why she’s frowning and she wrenches her eyes from my leg.
I’m smoldering from my head to my toes, watching Reid’s hands move over her body like they belong there, and she’s annoyed that Brooke’s hand sits passively on my leg.
I suppose one could argue that there’s no photographer ordering the placement of Brooke’s hand. Removing it to her own knee, I shoot up and walk to the back corner where bottles of water and snacks are located. Grabbing a bottle and twisting the cap from it, I wish I could just pour it over my head. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust his history with her.
“Hey,” Brooke says, appearing next to me, one hand on my back, stroking down. I take a deep breath, her touch calming me. “What’s the matter?”
I shake my head and laugh once, turning and looking down at her with a grim smile. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I just really hate photo shoots. The makeup. The crap in my hair. The clothes.” I gesture to the black suit that screams either “church” or “funeral,” depending on your mood. Anyone could guess mine right now—at least Brooke certainly can. I hope it’s because she’s known me for so long and not because I’m so ridiculously transparent.
She tilts her head to the side a bit, glancing back at Emma and Reid. I don’t follow her gaze. I’m still just trying to breathe while Reid Alexander practically makes out with my girlfriend in the live version of photos millions of people will see. Many of those people already think they make an attractive couple. Against all better judgment, I glance towards them and get confirmation of this fact. They’re both beautiful. Of course they look good together. How could they not?
“Is there… something going on between you and Emma?” Brooke asks, her LA-smile, as I call it, firmly in place.
“Why do you ask?” I hedge, and she does that low-laugh thing, still smiling up at me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen jealous Graham before.” She squeezes my bicep and arches a brow. “Mmm, very alpha-male.”
When I scowl, she laughs at me again and I take a deep breath, feeling years less mature. “God, am I that obvious?” I start to run a hand through my hair, but can’t. The styling for the shoot looks better than my Bill Collins helmet-do during filming, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s untouchable. “Aauuugh,” I say, and Brooke laughs again.
“So you and Emma, huh?” She selects a Perrier from the ice bucket and fingers through the snacks, choosing nothing. “How long has this been going on?”
I shake my head once. “Not long.”
The photographer calls us for group shots, and I’m happy to end this conversation. Talking to Brooke has had a dual effect. I’m less tense, but instantly worried by the jealousy accusation. Alpha-male? Good God, no. Mom and Brynn would lecture me until my ears rang. Possessive men are at the top of their lists of to-be-scorned things. “A self-possessed man is what a psychologically healthy woman wants,” preaches my mother, the psychologist. “Not some guy who dispenses orders and punishment—whether physical or emotional—and distrusts her every move.”
She brought home enough codependent client stories, a few complete with stalking—two of which turned criminal—to scare my sisters away from those type of guys and scare me away from that type of girl. The type who wants—needs—the jealous boyfriend to prove she has worth. My eyes are on Emma as she talks and laughs with Jenna and MiShaun, and I know she’s not in that category. Compromising and generous, yes. Forgiving, too, I think, watching as Reid moves near her and joins the conversation.
Her response to being held too tightly would be a quick exit.
Her eyes swing to meet mine, and everything in me snaps and sings with pleasure. A slow burn begins at my core and I know it will build until we’re alone in her room again, the rest of the world shut out. There’s a line at the edge of possessive, and she makes me want to walk it. This three-second glance between us reinforces what I know. I love her. Everything else—the ins and outs of my feelings and hers in conjunction with what it all means—can be deciphered in due time. I love her. That’s all that matters, and in this moment, that’s all I am.
***
Brooke
Well, shit. This is more serious than I thought. He may actually believe he’s in love with her.