Well, I did love to be right.
I handed her the chapters, and she sat reading, her eyes darting back and forth over the pages. Every now and then she’d glance at me with a concerned look. Finally, she finished and cleared her throat. “A lion?”
Shit.
I rolled my eyes. “I need to get laid.”
“Take off your tie, Graham.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need you to unlock your phone and take off your tie and the suit jacket. No girl who is trying to have sex is in search of a man with a freaking suit and tie on. Plus, you buttoned the top button on your shirt.”
“It’s classy.”
“It looks like your neck has a muffin top.”
“You’re being ridiculous. This is a custom-made designer suit.”
“You rich people and your labels. All I hear is that it’s not a penis, and therefore it eliminates your opportunities to get laid. Now, unlock your phone and take off the tie.”
Annoyed, I followed her orders. “Better?” I asked, crossing my arms.
She grimaced. “A little. Here, unbutton the top three buttons on your shirt.”
I did as she said, and she nodded, taking photographs.
“Yes! Chest hair—women who are trying to get it on love some chest hair. It’s like the three little pigs; it has to be the right amount. Not too much, not too little, your hair is justtttt right.” She grinned.
“Have you been drinking again?” I asked.
She laughed. “No. This is just me.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
After taking some shots, she studied them with the biggest frown I’d ever seen. “Yeah, no. You have to take off your shirt completely.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not taking off my shirt in front of you.”
“Graham,” Lucy whined, rolling her eyes. “You have your shirt off every other day doing that kangaroo thing with Talon. Now shut up and take off your shirt.”
After some more arguing, I finally gave in. She even had me switch into dark black jeans—to “look more manly.” She started snapping photographs, telling me to turn left and right, to smile with my eyes—whatever that meant—and to be moody but sexy.
“Okay, one more. Turn to the side, drop your head a little, and slide your hands into your back pockets. Look as if you hate everything about me taking pictures of you.”
Easy enough.
“There,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Your pictures are now uploaded. Now all that’s left to do is perfect your bio.”
“No need,” I told her, reaching for my cell phone. “I already did that part.”
She raised an eyebrow, seeming unsure, and then went to read it. “New York Times bestselling author who has a six-month-old child. Married, but the wife ran away. Looking to hook up. Also, I’m five foot eleven.”
“Everyone seems to put their height. I guess it’s a thing.”
“This is awful. Here, I’ll fix it.”
I hurried over to her, standing behind to watch what she typed.