Yuna licks her lips. “Wow. That one’s totally fantastic.”
“You think?” She still hasn’t blinked. “Let’s see how it looks with the right pants.” I make a show of looking around, although the pants package came last week.
Yuna bursts out giggling, sounding both amused and turned on. “You’re going to change into new pants right here?”
“Why not? I can also do underwear. After all, that was how I got my start.” I wink.
Her lips are twitching. “She didn’t send any underwear.”
“She didn’t?”
“Nope.” Yuna laughs again.
“Okay, what? Share the joke,” I say.
“It’s just… You’re outside my brother’s office window.”
Doesn’t make much sense. “I am?”
“What I mean is, there’s a huge billboard in Seoul with your picture on it. Black and white, with you modeling some underwear or other. Eugene can see it every time he goes into his office.”
“That’s probably your brother’s favorite underwear now,” I say smugly. Brands have told me I’ve moved more units than any other model.
She laughs again. “I doubt it, although I never asked. I don’t even remember the underwear company’s name.”
“Well.” I run a hand across my chin. “I can be distracting.” And I’m okay with distracting Yuna.
“So. What do you want to do about the shirts she sent? Keep them all, or…?”
“I’m keeping this one, but you can send the rest back to her.”
“All of them?”
I shr
ug. “Pick out the ones you like, if you want. But she always sends way too many. She expects me to reject a few.”
Yuna nods and makes a note on her phone.
“Okay, time for a workout. Come to the gym upstairs,” I say. “I need someone to count reps and make sure I stay hydrated.” And I want to enjoy having her watch me, like just now, when I modeled the shirts for her.
“You can’t count for yourself?”
“Nope. Just be happy. You’re the first woman to do the honor.”
Because I’m not going to waste an opportunity to lift heavy things topless and flex the shit out of my muscles until all she can dream about is my bare torso.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Yuna
Counting isn’t rocket science. I mean, some animals can do it. Plus anyone studying music learns to count beats. So I should be an expert.
But holy shit. My brain’s mushy. And it isn’t because I’ve been drinking.
I run my fingers along my mouth, just to be sure I’m not drooling like an idiot.
Nope. The skin is dry. Yay. A win.