Changing Teams (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Britt

I hardly slept on Thursday night, and my tossing and turning was all Sam’s fault. If I wasn’t lying awake pining for him, I was having these incredibly vivid dreams about him making a surprise visit to my apartment and crawling into bed with me. Around seven I declared sleep a lost cause and took a cold shower.

After the shower, I made a bowl of oatmeal and sat at my drawing table. My sketch of naked Sam was lying on top of the heap of supplies, and I found myself wondering if he’d like it. I also wondered if he’d pose for me sometime; given that I’d posed for him—it would only be fair. Since he liked Central Park so much, maybe we could pick a sunny afternoon and set up on the Sheep Meadow, him with a camera and me with some pencils and a sketchpad.

My phone trilled, and I saw three unread text messages. Fearing they were from Ben, I opened them, then breathed a sigh of relief since two were from Astrid, and one was from my mother. The two from Astrid read:

Astrid: Holy shit, you are a hottie!

Astrid: Damn girl, was that for real or just for the camera?

Since I had no idea what Astrid was talking about, I opened the message from my mother.

Mom: He’s furious. Did you have to do this the day before Melody’s wedding?

The ‘he’ in question was probably my stepfather, and I honestly had no idea what I’d done to infuriate him this time. In the past, my transgressions had ranged from coming home a minute past curfew—what eighteen-year-old has to be home by nine, anyway?—to my overall disdain of corporate America, to my mere existence. Complicating the situation was the fact that stepdaddy was infertile or impotent or something, which meant that he’d never have children of his own to carry on his legacy of evil. Mind you, he hadn’t told my mom about his little condition until after they’d gotten married, but she got him back but good. Thanks to yours truly, Patrick was saddled with an unruly stepdaughter that preferred art over law as his only heir. As if I’d ever wanted to be an heiress.

I called my mom and she picked up on the first ring. “There you are.”

“What have I done to upset Patrick this time?”

Mom sighed. “It’s Melody that’s really upset.”

“Oh, well, who cares about her?”

“Britt,” Mom admonished. “You know how Patrick cares for her.”

I sure did, being that Patrick had doted on Melody for as long as I could remember, going so far as to pay for the monstrosity that was her wedding. Maybe he could adopt Melody and set me loose. I’d much preferred being Britt Cavanaugh, anyway. “Okay. Why is Melody upset?”

Mom sighed again. “It seems that there are pictures of you on a website.”

“Mom, I’m a model. There are pictures of me all over the place.”

“These aren’t modeling shots. They are of you and a man, and the man is hitting another man, and then you kiss him.”

“Omigod.” I powered up my laptop, and asked, “Have you seen them?”

“Yes. Melody emailed them to Patrick this morning.”

“What website are they on?”

“Something about a shoe.”

I banged my head against the table; she meant
If The Shoe Fits
—she had to. Of all the places for pictures of me and Sam to wind up on…

“What was that noise?” Mom asked.

“Oh, just knocking some sense into myself. Hang on, I’m bringing up the website.”

One by one the images populated, and yes, they were exactly as Mom described. Sam hitting Ben, me trying to pull Sam away, and…

“Oh, crap.”

“Saw the kissing one?”

“Yeah.” Not only did the image feature what was perhaps one of the most passionate kisses I’d ever experienced, thanks to Sam’s hands pushing up my skirt to get at my butt, the world was treated to an unobstructed view of my undergarments. Thank God I’d worn those hot pants.

“So,” I drawled, “damage control?”

“Honestly, sweetie, she’s really on the warpath,” Mom said.

“Does that mean I get to skip the wedding?” I asked brightly.

“Not hardly. We’ve put the word out not to mention the pictures during the rehearsal dinner, and you can lay low during the reception. While Melody’s in the midst of her princess fantasy she probably won’t notice you.”

“We can only hope.” I wiggled my mouse, moving the picture of Sam and me kissing up and down the screen.

“What’s his name?” Mom asked.

“Sam. Sam MacKellar.”

Mom sighed, or maybe her brain was developing a slow leak. I sure felt like mine was. “At least he’s Irish.”

“He’s my date for Melody’s wedding.”

Mom laughed, a bit hysterically if you asked me. “Well, this will certainly be interesting.”

***

After I got myself dressed and sent Astrid a text telling her I’d explain everything later, I packed my overnight bag and headed over to the catalog shoot’s location. Since Sam wasn’t footing the bill, and I needed the exercise anyway, I opted to walk over instead of cabbing it. Really, walking around the city was the only exercise I got; I’d never been a runner like Sam, and I couldn’t afford a gym membership.

Maybe I’d ask Sam if we could go running together. Well, it would have to be just walking at first; at my current level of fitness, I doubted I could run a block without collapsing.

As I daydreamed about Sam in exercise gear, I got a text from the man himself:

Sam: Ever hear of that trash site If The Shoe Fits?

Britt: I saw them.

Sam: Sorry, baby, meant to tell you last night but I forgot. Your ass looks great, tho.

Britt: Play your cards right, maybe we can try that again.

Sam: LOL. See you at the studio at five?

Britt: You bet, cowboy.

Once I got to the catalog shoot’s studio, I signed in and made my way over to the set manager. “Hey, Bill,” I greeted.

“Britt,” he said, his gaze sweeping from my head to my feet. “Looking good, hottie. You here for the final shots?”

“Yeah,” I said, taking a step back. “Is the stuff in my usual room?”

“No, you were upgraded to B2.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I entered the dressing room and put on the clothes I’d be modeling for the session. Since we were shooting a winter catalog for a national department store chain, my outfit consisted of elegant fawn tweed pants topped with a cream colored sweater. Since I had legs for miles, as Sam had so eloquently put it, all the pants for the shoot had been too short for me, and these were no exception. Today, however, knee high chocolate brown leather boots completed the look, and hid my bare ankles.

When I stepped onto the sound stage, Bill descended upon me again. “So, Britt, we were wondering if you’re available for more work.”

“Um, sure,” I said. “Will it be more catalog work?”

“This will be a Valentine’s Day spread,” Bill replied. “You’re cool with partial nudity, right?” he asked with a wink.

I was cool with nudity, but not his creepy wink. “Is it a lingerie catalog?” My phone trilled; I glanced at the display, and saw it was a call from my agent. “Excuse me.”

I stepped away from Bill, and answered, “Hey, Marlys.”

“Hey, hottie,” Marlys replied. She was the third person to call me that before noon. “My inbox is exploding with jobs for you.”

“Really? Awesome.” For a moment I imagined making enough money to get a larger apartment, maybe invest in some new art supplies. “But why now? I’ve been doing hardly anything but catalog work for months.”

“It’s all because of your appearance on
If The Shoe Fits
,” Marlys replied. “The shot of you kissing that man after he knocked out some creep out is going viral. You’re the hottest girl in New York right now.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, suddenly wishing I’d never kissed Sam at the gallery. “Actually, the kiss happened before he hit Ben,” I mumbled.

“Even better,” Marlys said. “I’ll compile a list of the best offers, and email them over to you as soon as I can. Will you get back to me by Tuesday morning?”

“Sure thing,” I said, then I asked, “Um, Marlys, why is everyone calling me hottie?”

A pause. “You really don’t know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“When you get a chance, Google yourself. You’re being called the hottest of the hotties, worth getting knocked out for.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m going to need an aspirin.”

“Think of all the free publicity you’re getting,” Marlys said. “This is a good thing, Britt, honey.”

“Yeah, a wicked good thing,” I mumbled, then I ended the call. I looked around the set; most everyone was looking from their phone or tablet to me, then whispering to each other. So, this was what being famous felt like, everyone staring at you and gossiping behind your back. If this was the sort of life those fame-mongers wanted, they could have it.

And if I ever saw Ben again, I’d punch him myself.

***

The catalog shoot wrapped early, and the production manager had been so impressed with my work he let me keep the clothes I’d worn that day, and had let me pick out some other items from the wardrobe; I guess that was their way of showing me that they really
really
wanted me for that lingerie shoot. I accepted a few sweaters and those chocolate brown boots, but left all the too-short pants behind.

I arrived at Nash’s studio just before five and let myself into the studio proper, taking a seat alongside the sound stage. Sam was doing something across the room; I caught his gaze and he flashed me a quick smile. Maybe being infamous wouldn’t be so bad as long as Sam could be infamous with me.

“Hey, Britt,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and saw my friend Jillene. We had met a few weeks ago at the museum, where she also sat for the occasional art class.

“Hey, Jill,” I said, wondering if I should warn her about Ben. I’d never seen her sitting for any of his classes, but the guy was a creep, you know? “You have a gig here?”

“I know, can you believe it?” she gushed. “Out of nowhere, Nash Williams called me for a shoot. I said yes before I even knew what it was about.”

“But you know now, right?” I demanded.

“Miss Sullivan,” came a voice from my left. I turned and saw Nash Williams himself striding toward me. “Jillene, they need you in makeup.”

“Of course,” Jillene replied, scuttling away toward the dressing rooms. Nash watched her leave, then he said, “Nice to see you again, Miss Sullivan. Are you here to meet Sam?”

“I am,” I replied. “I hope that’s all right?”

“Of course it is,” Nash replied with a genial smile. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you again soon. Sands Romance, the publisher for the cover shoot we did last week, loved the images. Since that book is the first in a series, they were hoping you’d be available for the rest of the covers.”

“I suppose I am,” I said, remembering the three hundred dollar fee. “How many covers are there?”

“Ten altogether, and they want to have the next nine wrapped up within the month.”

Wow. That was a lot of work I could add to my portfolio, and a lot of money for me. And I’d have the added benefit of working with Sam. “Sounds good,” I said. “Can you get the contracts over to my agent, Marlys Eaton?”

“I’ll have them there by the beginning of next week,” Nash said.

“Have what where?” Sam asked, as he came up beside me. “Hey, darlin’.”

“Hey, cowboy.” I wanted to kiss him hello, but since I didn’t know how Sam’s coworkers would react to that I settled for slipping my hand inside his. “Nash told me that the romance publisher wants me on more of their covers.”

He gave me that lopsided smile that always melted my heart. “Ironic, since you hate romances so much.”

“Shh. That’s our secret.”

Nash cleared his throat, and said, “Sam, we’re about done here. Why don’t you two take off?” Nash glanced pointedly from our entwined hands to my bag. I guess we were being a bit obvious.

“Thanks, boss,” Sam said. “See you bright and early on Wednesday.”

With that, Sam grabbed his jacket and we headed toward the elevator, with every single one of his coworkers watching us. No, make that staring; seriously, it was only a picture of a single kiss on the website, and they were acting like our nonexistent sex tape had been leaked. “I take it they’ve all seen the website,” I said.

“Web
sites
,” Sam corrected. “Your cute butt is plastered all over the Internet, baby.”