Made to be His ( The Archer Family 1)

Her pink tongue peeked from between her lips and she ran it over her mouth, apparently concentrated on something he couldn't see.

Focus, focus, focus.

But he couldn't think about anything other than those lips. What they tasted like. The way they glistened.

This was what had gotten him into trouble before, and still he could feel himself sliding back into that frame of mind. If he didn't get a grip, he was bound to lose it completely.

Probably best to start with the basics. "Actually, while we're on the topic of apologies owed—"

She held up a hand, her face paler than it had been even a second before. "No need."

"Really, though. I know I made things weird between us when I... Well, just know it won't happen again," he said.

He'd expected her to smile. To say something. Hell, he might have taken it if she'd done anything at all. Instead, she turned her gaze from him and cleared her throat.

"I think they're ready for you on set," she said, her voice wavering slightly.

Almost as if she was disappointed by what he'd said.

Christ, what was wrong with him? He'd asked for her forgiveness. Couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

He stalked toward the canvas and stood there, staring straight at the lens and waiting for his cue. These things were always so awkward. Worse was when they'd throw things at him or ask him to pose with something. If only his job could just be to catch and throw baseballs. That he could do.

This?

Not so much. And his point was only emphasized by the unkempt photographer’s constantly thwarted efforts to get him to cooperate. No matter how he tried, he couldn't get himself to “make love to the camera,” least of all with Andy standing there next to it. Half of the time as he flexed and posed, he found himself staring at her rather than the lens, and the photographer would let out another frustrated sigh.

On the seventh of these exhalations, the cameraman stepped back from the lens and called, "Bring in the girls."

"The girls?" His eyebrows shot up and three half-naked women appeared, walking in single file. There might have been four. From the side, it was hard to tell since they were all so waifish and scantily clad.

"What is this?" Andy asked. He could tell she'd tried to hide it, but he could still hear the edge of surprise in her tone.

"The magazine called," the photographer said, "They want a sexier cover. A little edgier and more hip. I said we had just the girls for the job."

Said girls piled around him, smashing themselves against him until all he could smell was their stale cigarette breath.

Each of them wore big feather plumes of their heads, like they were prepped for some half-rate Vegas act. The things made it hard for him to spot Andy, but he craned his neck, straining with all his might to hear the rest of their interaction.

"Why the hell didn't they call me?" she snapped.

"It was a last minute decision." The photographer shrugged and readjusted his lens. "Time is money, sweetheart."

Then, turning finally to his subjects, the photographer shouted, "Closer."

Hollow bones pressed in on him from all angles, practically suffocating him while he feigned a wide, brilliant smile.

And he wasn't the only one faking.

As the shoot wore on and the girls huddled around him in one provocative position after the other, Andy's pretend patience with the whole thing was wearing thin.

Five more minutes of watching these women press against him and he was sure she’d blow a gasket. Normally, it might have been amusing to watch her all flustered and red in the face, but today it was just kind of...well, kind of sad.

He couldn't let it go on any further. "Listen." He stepped out from behind one of the girls' boney hips and said, "I've got some other appointments today. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but do you mind if we call this thing a wrap?"

He speared a hand through his hair as the photographer looked him over, probably knowing full well that Logan had only phrased things in the form of a question to make the situation more comfortable. The other man nodded, but he was far less than thrilled, and he called the dead-eyed girls back to their dressing rooms before mumbling a half-hearted “thank you” and something about being "this close" to retirement.

In situations like these, the expectation was to grab his stuff from the dressing room and go. His agent would always handle all of the paperwork and the management, and he'd hit the road, calling it all a day's work as he drove off into the sunset. But today he wasn't quite ready to call things quits.