by Maria Luis
18
That old saying that things always get worse before they get better?
If Lizzie’s life during the last week was any indication, then she fully believed the adage to be absolutely, unequivocally true.
Sitting at her desk in her studio, Lizzie stared at the computer screen.
More specifically, at the article which TMZ had posted only twenty-two minutes earlier: Inspiring Instagram Account, Naked You, Reaches Two Million Followers—But Who Owns It? Holly Carter Spills All in Interview With Vanity Fair . . .
Lizzie’s elbow collided with her coffee cup, and the liquid sloshed over the rim and soaked her September expenses report.
“Dammit.”
This is what she got for keeping everything on the down low.
The public didn’t care that there were real people out there who had come into contact with “Lizabeth Vittoria” over the last three years. No, they only wanted to see what the media laid out for them.
And, according to every media source in the good ol’ US of A, Holly Carter was their anonymous photographer, who’d chosen to work under a different name so as to not steal the limelight from her celebrity athlete of a husband.
Lizzie grabbed a stray napkin off her desk and dabbed at the report. Stupid, so stupid. Would anyone have really cared that she did photography along with makeup? No, of course not. Her photos were tasteful, beautiful, and more often than not, they depicted aspects of humanity that usually were sheathed behind fabrics and material.
Only in her head had she made it all out to be a bigger deal than it actually was. And now Mrs. Holly Carter was the one doing an interview with Vanity Fair . . .
Unable to resist, Lizzie clicked on the link TMZ had provided, and there she was, Holly Carter. A Louisiana-born, Texas-raised socialite who’d married her high school sweetheart. A sweetheart who’d ended up playing for the NHL, and who was now the captain for the Boston Blades—if Lizzie’s internet-stalking proved accurate.
In the headline photo, Holly’s blonde hair was stylized perfectly, curls bouncy around her shoulders. Sleek. Sophisticated. Lizzie grumbled to herself as she scrolled past the title and the plucked-out quotes, and down to where the article began:
Holly Carter has always been a photographer. From the day she moved to Faithful, a small Texas town not so far from Austin, she wanted to capture everything in sight. The houses, the people. But growing up in the South meant football, and with four older brothers, it’s not so much of a surprise that Holly would soon find herself snapping pictures of athletes. Little did she know then, at ten years old, that sports photography would be a career-long passion.
Crap.
Holly Carter sounded like the perfect woman. If she could land a Vanity Fair spread, she really didn’t need Naked You’s burgeoning fame on top of that.
Lizzie continued down the page, her eyes eagerly searching for any commentary on her business. No, nothing there. No, she didn’t particularly care about the woman’s separation from the hockey player.
Wait.
Yes, right there—
The sound of the front door buzzing jerked Lizzie’s gaze from the computer screen to her open planner. She didn’t have an appointment today, just some photos to edit. In an attempt to “live in the moment,” she’d taken the streetcar down to the French Quarter yesterday and snapped photos of the street performers. The guy with the “fake” dead dog, the latter of which sat in a baby carriage, paws thrust up in the air, and only broke character when someone strolled past with food. The woman in the gray, gossamer gown, with her face painted like a glitter-skull and her hair teased to Marie Antoinette-heights.
Lizzie had to pay the woman ten bucks to take her picture, but it’d been worth it.
More knocking at the door: heavy, demanding.
She sent one more look to her computer, absorbing the words she’d been desperate to see: I’m a huge fan of Naked You, but no, I’m not Lizabeth Vittoria. Whoever she is, she has some major talent. I’d love to do a collaboration with her in the future, though. Her photos are stunning, raw, and while I’d like to pretend that I’m the person behind that lens . . . it’d be wrong of me to uphold a lie. Sorry!
“Holly Carter,” Lizzie muttered beneath her breath, “you’re my new best friend.”
With a quick sashay toward the main studio, Lizzie drew to a sudden stop when she spotted the group of men beyond the front windows of Naked You. There were ten, no, eleven, and was that . . . ?
She squinted, hastening her pace.
Why in the world was Luke O’Connor on her doorstep?
Flipping the latch on the deadbolt, Lizzie drew open the door and immediately felt the oxygen leave her body.
Gage Harvey stood before her, casually leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, his NOPD hat pulled low. Although they’d exchanged texts since their night out for pizza, there hadn’t been time to see him.
He’d apologized, citing a crazy work schedule as the cause.
She’d accepted the apology, and spent her days and nights wandering her hometown for angles and people and neighborhoods that she’d never photographed before.
It hadn’t escaped her notice that they were acting like a quasi-couple. But Gage hadn’t mentioned it and Lizzie kept her mouth shut, worried to ruin whatever they had going on.
She mimicked his pose, pressing her shoulder against the same side of the door frame as him. “This is unexpected.”
Lizzie wasn’t prepared for the panty-melting grin he gave her. “That was the plan.”
“I’m intrigued.” Leaning forward, she sent a quick glance at the men behind Gage, all of whom were decked out in black BDU’s. “Although slightly confused. Am I under arrest, Officer?”
Thick, muscular arms bunched as he lifted his hand to rub his jawline. “Not today, Miz Danvers. Unless you’ve done something worth arresting you for?”
“Nope.” She let the sound of the P pop, intentionally doing so, knowing that he’d be unable to resist looking at her mouth. She wanted to shove off his hat to get a clear read on him—not that he was easy to read. The man was charming, funny, erotic, and yet she knew so little about him.
Another reason to hold your cards close to your heart.
“I’m just your average, law-abiding citizen,” she added after a moment’s pause, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, what can I do for y’all?”
“We’re here for the calendar.”
Her spine straightened. “Excuse me?”
With a gentle hand to her shoulder, Gage pushed her back into the studio, so that he and the rest of the guys could enter. “The calendar,” he repeated with a slow grin. “I couldn’t order any Aussies firefighters on short notice, but I figured some N’Orleans cops could be our compromise?”
“You think this is going to get us laid?” said a younger-looking dude with shaggy blond hair, his hands on his hips as he took in the studio space. “Not that I need the help or anything like that . . .”
Another guy barked out a laugh. “Timms, man, my brother sees more action than you, and he’s fifteen and still a virgin.”
Timms’ face bloomed a cherry red. “Screw you, Cardeaux. I get pussy just like everyone else.”
“Pity fucks don’t count.”
Lizzie turned to Gage, eyes narrowed. “You want me to do a calendar spread so that your buddies can get sex?” She couldn’t wipe the disgusted note from her tone, and Gage’s wide eyes told her that he’d noticed.
“What?” He swiped his ball cap off his head, thwapping it against his cargo-pant leg. “Hell no. I needed volunteers, and unfortunately, this is our motley crew.”
Luke O’Connor entered her periphery, and Lizzie didn’t know whether to offer him a hug in hello or run in the opposite direction. He didn’t know about Naked You, and Lizzie felt the nerves creep up, closing her throat and warming her cheeks.
“Nice setup you have here,” Luke told her with a warm smile. “I’ve been past this place hundreds of
times and I never realized it was yours.”
Was breathing a necessity? Honest question, because at this exact moment, Lizzie could only hope that the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
“I-I, um.” She fiddled with the bracelets on her wrist, seeking the words that just wouldn’t come. “It’s just that—”
Gage stepped forward, his arm brushing against hers. “Because of some legal factors with ThatMakeupGirl, Lizzie couldn’t reveal her association with Naked You.” He looked down at her, black eyes gleaming with encouragement. “Isn’t that right, princess?”
Her mind went blank. Irrefutably, positively blank.
Just a few weeks ago, Gage had sworn that he wanted nothing to do with this side of Lizzie’s life, the side of her life which, he’d said, could directly influence his job. But here he was, staging a calendar with his coworkers, pushing her to be open about her identity as the owner of Naked You.
She had so many questions for him.
But it wasn’t the time nor the place, and so Lizzie only nodded her head robotically and plastered a bright smile to her face. “He’s right.”
Luke’s green eyes stayed on her face, and no doubt saw straight through her bullshit. “All I know is that Anna is going to want me as October. We met in October, married in October. Seems fitting.”
Timms, the guy who couldn’t get laid apparently, popped a hand into the air. “I call December.”
Another cop snickered. “That’s because you can get Timms on a holiday discount.”
“Harry, at least I’d get picked up off the shelf.”
“Yeah, to be put in the clearance section.”
With a huff, Timms rolled his eyes and stalked over to Lizzie’s vintage sofa. “Y’all are a bunch of assholes.”
Lizzie had to agree; Gage’s coworkers were pricks.
As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Gage murmured, “He’s the new kid on the block. You don’t even want to know the sort of shit they pulled back when I was the new guy in S.O.D. It was brutal.”
“It can’t be that brutal if y’all are here, planning to do a full calendar spread. I’m finding it hard to believe that anyone in the NOPD would agree to this.”
“Trust me, I had to do some canoodling.” A low chuckle escaped him. “Man, I love that word. Anyway, the request had to go through rank, but 1200”—at her raised brow, he backtracked—“lieutenant, sorry. Lieutenant asked the commander, and he agreed to let us do this after I suggested that all proceeds go to a local charity for first responders.”
Oh.
That was awfully . . . Well, it was awfully nice of him.
That was part of the problem. It was easier to push him out of her thoughts when he was nothing but the cocky tattoo artist—even then, it’d been difficult. In the last few weeks, though, Gage had shown that he wasn’t like the douchebags she’d dated in the past. If anything, he was so much more.
Funny. Kind. Compassionate.
The handsome face and sexy tattoos didn’t even begin to cover how good of a person he was.
His hand landed on her back, between her shoulders blades, as he dipped his head close to hers. “I wasn’t trying to blow your secret,” he said, voice low, “but I figured there’s no better way to crack open the lid, so to speak, then with a group of guys who won’t give a shit who you are. Half of them are married and want to show off to their wives; the other half just want to reap the rewards of doing a calendar. Namely, getting their dicks wet.”
Lizzie bit her lip to keep from laughing at his crudity. “And what about you?” she asked, taking a leap of faith. “You aren’t married.”
His throat worked with a hard swallow, and for the first time, Lizzie wondered if his secrets were insurmountable. The kind that destroyed; unlike hers, which had proved to be merely speed bumps. “Nah,” he finally said, “marriage isn’t for me.”
It sounded so final.
She knew he felt that way, but still, there was a small sting in her chest, a pinching of her heart. Remember that, girl. Enjoy the now and don’t even contemplate the future. In a rough voice, she added, “And are you looking to get your dick wet?”
His onyx eyes dropped to her lips, lingering a moment too long. “I wouldn’t put it that crudely when it comes to her, but yeah, I’ve got a woman in mind.”
Lizzie didn’t even have the chance to respond before Timms hollered, “Are we doing this anytime soon?”
Yeah, they were doing it. Lizzie had never been a prude, and if the proceeds were going to charity . . . Well, she’d have to be pretty heartless to say no. Heartless and also a good deal stupid—she had eleven sexy (Timms included) cops waiting to be photographed for an annual calendar.
This was every woman’s dream.
And Lizzie planned to take one for the team.
She clapped her hands together and gave a short whistle. “All right, y’all, I’m going to need you to get in order of the month you’d like to represent.”
There was some juggling around when two of the guys both wanted June—they shared it as a birthday month—but a spitfire game of Rock, Paper, Scissors broke it up, and the russet-haired fellow retreated to February instead.
“On the bright side,” Lizzie said as she arranged furniture with the help of Luke and Gage, “you’re now going to look sentimental.”
The redhead stared at her blankly.
“Valentine’s Day is in February. You’re now Mr. February . . .”
More blinking.
Great. Lizzie pitied whoever ended up fantasizing about Mr. February whenever the impromptu calendar released. Much like Scott with his super-magical hands, this guy was a dose of false advertisement. Good body, handsome face, not much working upstairs. Unfortunate, really.
“Are we doing this shirtless?” asked Cardeaux, fingering the hem of his T-shirt. He drew it up to his pecs, then whipped it off completely. “My vote is for yes.”
“No one wants to see your hairy chest,” Timms muttered.
Cardeaux narrowed his dark eyes on the new recruit. “Boy, if you don’t want to be stuck doing paperwork for the rest of your short-lived career, I highly advise you to take off your shirt, pose, and don’t speak another word.”
Timms sent Lizzie a wry grin. “No wonder the poor bastard’s single. Who’d want to listen to him bark all day?” He dropped his voice to a growl. “No, woman, don’t sit there. I told you, you’re only allowed to stand against the wall and wait for me to command you to breathe.”
Laughing, Lizzie turned around only to run smack into a hard chest.
Gage’s bare chest.
Oh. Oh.
His hands circled her biceps. “Mr. September at your service.”
Her heart leapt into a frenzy at the sight of all his tattoos. Intricate lines decorated his chest. Elegant cursive script spanned across his collarbone. Although she’d sat next to him in his kitchen two weekends ago, they’d never stood so close before.
She couldn’t help drawing in a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his masculine perfection.
“Did you just sniff me?”
Yes. “I plead the fifth.”
“Not exactly the words to say around a bunch of cops, princess. We’ll sniff you right out—figuratively, I mean.”
“Good point.” She tipped back her head to meet his gaze. “Why September?”
Fingers tightening around her arms, he stepped back and then released her. “A few reasons.” Turning his head to scope out his coworkers, he added, “We ready to get this show on the road?”
She wanted to push for answers.
Once again, not the right time.
“Yes,” she said, “time to get the show on the road.”
The next two hours flew by in a whir of overt testosterone, ridiculous innuendos, and more than a few dramatic arm curls. Thankfully, the guys were good sports. When Lizzie told Cardeaux to stop giving her the duck lips, he was quick to part his mouth, roll his shoulders, and leave the duck pout for s
ome other sucker. “Sorry,” he muttered, relaxing into his slouched position against a white wall, “my little cousin told me it was the It thing to do.”
As the lens snapped photo after photo of New Orleans’s finest, Lizzie felt herself easing up and owning her role as the founder of Naked You.
“Yep,” she told Timms as she sat him down by the front window and instructed him to rest his elbows on his bent knees. Inexperienced or not, he was ripped like the rest of the guys—although not nearly as toned as Gage—and the ridges of his abdomen were prominently displayed with each exhalation. “I’ve seen more breasts than all of you combined.”
The young cop gave a hard laugh. “More than Harvey? Miz Danvers, I just don’t think that’s possible.”
Lizzie’s fingers squeezed her camera a little too tightly, and she shot off a photo before she’d meant to. “Maybe not more than Officer Harvey,” she said evenly, readjusting her hold on the expensive Canon. “He might be the exception to the rule.”
Gage Harvey seemed to be the exception to every rule.
“You talkin’ about me, Timms?” called out the man of the hour, and Lizzie couldn’t stop herself from glancing over.
Like his coworkers, he was bare-chested. Unlike his coworkers, his shirt was slung over his right shoulder. His black cargo pants hung low around lean hips. Between the combat boots and his backward NOPD hat, Gage was a walking, talking billboard for Hot Male. He sat at her counter, his ass half-lifted onto a stool.
She wanted to know what that powerful body would feel like rocking into her, using her for his pleasure and letting her do the same to him.
Bottomless black eyes landed on her face.
Lizzie swallowed her lust. “It appears the two of us are in a contest for who’s been privy to more breasts-sightings.”
Brows arching under the band of his ball cap, Gage gave her his full attention, twisting on the stool so that his long legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned back against the counter, forearms bent and resting on the marble behind him.
Do not look at his abs, do not look at his abs.
She was powerless against it.
