Page 31 of Behind the Camera
Later, when I wake up from my nap and open the picture of Maven and June curled up in her bed, my heart skips a goddamn beat. I hate myself just a little bit for staring at the photo for longer than I should, because it doesn’t feel like I’m being the good guy.
It feels like the exact opposite.
Like I’m about to break all the rules and play with fucking fire.
TWELVE
MAVEN
Dallas textedme last night and told me to meet him and June at the apartment this morning, but he didn’t add anything else. I’m clueless about what’s going on when I unlock the door to his place and walk inside.
“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out.
It’s quiet for a Tuesday morning, and I imagine Dallas might be moving slower only two days after his first game of the year. He got back late Sunday night from California with a win under his belt, but he was up early yesterday. I left as soon as I was awake; with no practice, he didn’t need my help with June.
We’re back on schedule today, but I’m nervous as I kick off my sneakers in the foyer and line them up next to Dallas’s high-top Nikes and June’s strappy sandals.
Maybe he’s going to fire me.
Maybe his laughter on the FaceTime call we shared while he was on the road was forced, and he’s pissed I made a mess in his house.
Maybe he started dating someone and doesn’t need me around anymore because he has another woman who can keep an eye on JB while he’s gone.
There’s a pressure in my chest as I think about someone replacing me. A twist in my gut as I imagine someone else getting to tuck June in at night and read her favorite bedtime stories, and I take a deep breath as I walk down the hall.
“Kitchen,” Dallas’s muffled voice calls back. “Come on in.”
I make my way toward the sound of pots and pans clinking together. Johnny Cash croons from a speaker, and I stop in the entryway to the kitchen, caught off guard by the sight in front of me.
Dallas.
Shirtless.
He’s bent over the stove. There’s a pink apron tied around his neck and one of June’s many tiaras is tangled in his messy hair. His black joggers sit low on his hips, and he’s humming along to the song.
I stare at him, at the ease of his movements as he flicks his wrist and lifts the pan off the stove. I admire the muscles stretching from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine. The red tint to his back makes it seem like he just climbed out of the shower a few minutes ago, and I wonder if he’s still warm from the hot water.
I realize I’m gawking at him, and I clear my throat.
“You’re taking Casual Tuesday to a new level,” I say, and he spins to face me.
The back of him was nice—deliciously so—but I’m not prepared for the front.
The apron stops well above his belly button. Abdominal muscles peek out from below the flowered pattern. A dusting of dark hair trails down his stomach to the waistband of his pants and disappears from view.
His body is made of sharp lines and sharp angles, hours of physical exertion spent crafting the sculpted slope of his limbs. He’s amanin every sense of the word, and for half a second,I daydream about what it would feel like to be pressed against him.
“Hey,” he says with his southern drawl, the syllable a little tired around the edges but still irreplaceably lovely. “There you are.”
I blink, and I jerk my gaze away from the spot above his hip and back to his face. He must have caught me staring, because he smirks and tilts his head to the side, a twinkle behind the dark brown of his eyes.
“Hi,” I say, and my throat goes dry.
“If you’re going to eye-fuck me Maven, you could at least buy me dinner first.”
“I amnoteye-fucking you,” I say, and I play with my necklace. “I’ve just never seen you without a shirt on, and it’s revolting.”
“Tell that to the tongue hanging out of your mouth,” he jokes. “I’m making pancakes. What kind do you want? Regular? Chocolate chip? Blueberry?”