His gaze sends an instant shock down my spine, and my whole body tingles. My toes shrink up inside my mismatched heel boots.
He...he has to be a male model, right? But the better question is why he’s looking at me like a scorned Casanova.
Oh.
Oh, God.
His expression turns me inside out. One arched eyebrow raised significantly higher than the other and cocky as hell.
I glance down, desperate for an excuse to break eye contact. And halfway afraid I’m in the middle of a terrible wardrobe malfunction I’m clueless about.
Nope.
Sweater dress still intact.
Heart still beating.
Panties still safely concealed where they should be...
I think?
When I look at him again, those feral eyes have shifted away from me, back to the photo shoot. I slowly exhale a sigh of relief.
This stranger and his sexy voodoo eyes are just the kind of trouble I don’t need today.
The chubby bearded guy close to him, who I peg as the photo manager from the way he scurries between the cameramen and Miss Perfect, becomes the focus of the male model’s glare. Stroking his chin, he watches the scene with a cold eye and clenched jaw.
I frown.
Everyone seems to be working their butts off to please this guy, and he can’t do more than grump-stare and make slight hand gestures now and then?
Life in the arts is hard enough, but having to kowtow to an entitled suit...woof.
Don’t feel too sorry for these people, Brina, I remind myself. They’re still getting paid by Mr. Entitlement. Well, hopefully.
But still. That’s what suit-wearing pricksters do. They treat the artists who make their precious ads that they depend on like trash. Without us, they’d be nothing.
I glare at the annoyingly gorgeous jerkface and take a loud slurp of my latte.
Model Man’s stabby blue eyes jerk to mine again. This time, I hold my ground, telling the butterfly swarm in my belly to stay put.
He holds a thick hand up, pointed directly at me, and motions to the statue beside my bench. Like he’s telling me to move without even having the decency to come over and ask politely.
Bad, bad move, Neanderthal.
Of course he does it again, this time more forcefully.
Of course.
Really? You don’t even know me and you think you can order me around?
With a snort, I dig my heels—okay, heel—into the ground. If looks could kill, there’d be a smoking crater right where his smug, rude, devilishly fine figure used to be.
Their group takes a break a minute later, and the chubby production guy jogs over.
“Hi t-there,” he stammers, stopping in front of the bench I’m sitting on, leaning on the back of it to catch his breath.
I give a floppy wave and sip my latte, bracing for what’s next.
“So, I was wondering if there’s any chance you’d be willing to move? This spot has better lighting for our shoot. I hate to ask. I’m sure you’re just out here enjoying your day, but...it’s a big job. We’d be really grateful if you could clear it.”
Could I “clear it?” Sure, let me just vacate public property with a grateful smile. All so your rich bitch boss can get his ever so important shots.
Before I can string the words together to form a nicer response—I know this guy is just a fellow minion doing his job—Mr. Rich Bitch himself stomps up.
“You’re going to have to move, miss. We need this spot.” At least his grumpalicious voice matches his looks.
I meet his eyes and smile. Not because he’s just as confusingly barbaric and good-looking up close.
“Now,” he adds, when I don’t move an inch after several long seconds.
I blink, shocked at his bluntness. I open my mouth to respond, but I haven’t gotten a word out before he folds his arms, his brows drawn together like thunderheads.
How fitting that he has the temperament of a heartless Greek god, too.
“This is public property. I’m not going anywhere,” I snap, giving him my best defiant face. “My mom says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know. Maybe you should try it.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “As cute as clichè Midwestern sayings are, there’s a marketing campaign happening here with a very tight schedule, and you’re stealing our light.”
Oh, their light.
I’d forgotten.
How do you steal sunlight, anyway? Is he so rich he thinks he owns the sun? Arrogance and entitlement go together like chocolate and peanut butter with this dude.
“So sorry. I bet you’re pouring a ton of money into this campaign, aren’t you?” I ask sweetly.
He nods, his scowl easing. “I’m glad you get it, so if you’ll just—”
“What I get is that you should’ve locked down a more private venue for your little campaign if it’s life or death. This is a public park, last I checked, and I’m not moving until every last bit of my cinnamon latte is gone.” I hold up my cup, sloshing the liquid around loudly.