“I’m not sure about the shirt.” I study the racks to see if there’s anything I like better.
“I hate this shirt,” Kenan offers.
I glance up and roll my eyes, but can’t suppress a smirk. I walk over to one of the racks and flip through several pieces.
“I’m the stylist on set, Lotus,” Amanda says. “I know what will look best under those lights and how it will translate to print.”
“Okay.” I don’t look away from the rack in front of me. “You go tell JP you refused my help.”
Everyone knows JP respects my opinion. If he were a teacher, I’d be his pet.
Amanda huffs and walks past me. “Well good luck,” she says sharply. “I’ll meet you out there. See how well you do on your own.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I answer absently, taking a mint green shirt from the rack. “What do you think of this one?”
I direct the question to Kenan since Amada has apparently run and left her toys behind.
He steps into the space beside me and leans against a nearby wall, staring at my profile. “I think it’s beautiful,” he says, laughing when I send him a wry look. “The shirt, I mean, of course.”
“Panda” by Desiigner starts thumping through the room’s sound system.
“Is that for the shoot?” Kenan asks.
“Yeah, the photographer puts on music to make the model more comfortable,” I reply, setting the shirt aside. “To feel more relaxed so we get better shots.”
“This is not the music to make me feel more relaxed,” he says. “And I doubt it’ll get you better shots since I’ll be rolling my eyes the whole time.”
“You don’t like this song?”
“You’re using ‘song’ loosely to describe what this is.” Disdain scrunches his handsome face. “I mean, what’s he even saying?”
“Panda,” I reply immediately.
“What else?” Kenan asks. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”
“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “You sound like somebody’s granddaddy.”
He stills and lifts one imperious brow. “And you sound like a millennial.”
“I am a millennial,” I fire back, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Aren’t you?”
“Uh . . . barely. Technically, yes, but my mom calls me an old soul. I identify older, I think.” He tilts his head, considering me through a veil of long, thick lashes. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? A little older than August?”
He nods, assessing me. I know without make-up and with my hair in these two braids, I look about fifteen.
“And how old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-five.”
“Shit.” He slips his hands into his pockets and frowns, biting one corner of his mouth. “I’m thirty-six.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he says. “Eleven years.”
“Does it really matter?” I grin and bite my thumbnail. “I mean we are just friends.”