I was an excellent poker player. I enjoyed analyzing facial expressions, reading people's tells when they tried to hide behind their cards. Everyone had a tick that told you when they were lying, when they were bluffing in a game.
I had gone through high school, making extra cash by reading people during poker games. It won me a good amount of cash, but it made me lose my naivety to how much people lied on a regular basis. It became impossible to pretend I didn't see them. The lies were too obvious.
It was so easy to see the truth behind the fake smiles and false words. I could tell when others were lying about their relationship status, lying through fake compliments, and lying about their feelings.
Tate Dalton stared up at me, lying and not lying all at the same time. A conflict of contradictions filled his face with the slight tension in his jaw, the way his brow furrowed slightly, leaving a small divot in between his brows, and in the slight tint of color that crawled up his neck. He was and wasn't joking. And that was good and bad all at the same time.
And in that uncertainty, wondering if he had pushed me too far, more concerned for me than his determination to prove a point, I found his weakness. He was too kind. Too good. It made my next decision too easy. I would call his bluff. I knew I could throw that fake confidence back at him and mess with him far more than he would ever dare mess with me.
If he wanted to play a game, fine. I was excellent at games. And I would rather play a game than sit there and try to decide if I wanted him to be serious. It was better to act like the entire thing was a joke.
Jokes keep things from being serious. So let's just make this one big joke.
Tilting my head down, I placed it against his chest, and snuggled up to him on the couch, ignoring the others in the room. Tate tensed underneath me, surprised by my sudden change. I turned my face so I was facing Michale, who stood nearby, ready to capture us on camera.
Michale smirked, amused that I had already called Tate's bluff. He shook his head minutely as if to say, try not to scare him away before we are done.
I had known Michale for years, so the request was fair. He knew me well enough to know that most boys that came into my life didn't last long.
"Cuddle closer!" Michale instructed, back in professional mode as he stared back through the lens.
I sat up and moved my head until I had it borrowed into the side of Tate's neck, allowing the smell of his intoxicating cologne to wash over me. He let out a shocked breath as I wrapped my hands around his waist. He was warm, his muscles lean under my fingers. It made me feel safe.
And for a brief moment, I humored the part of me that enjoyed the feeling of him against me. Enjoyed how comfortable I felt snuggled up to him. Smiled at the idea of getting to cuddle with someone, even if this particular guy infuriated me whenever he opened his mouth.
"Don't look so terrified! She's not going to bite you!" Michale called, trying not to laugh at Tate sitting completely still, like an attractive cardboard cutout.
I slowly lifted my eyes and smiled up at Tate from under my lashes. "No promises," I said with my own dangerous smile.
His eyes went wide as he took me in, and I could see a thousand rebuttals, most likely in joke form fluttering through his brain. He was trying to find something to say. To find a joke about us cuddled up on a couch like two idiots while dozens of people stared at us, trying to create the perfect shot that would be plastered in magazines. But no words came out. He just stared at me for a long beat, his eyes darkening for a moment before he blinked, and sat up, removing himself from me and running his fingers through his hair.
"You are trying to kill me," he muttered before fully sitting up on the couch and finally leaving room for me to sit next to him. He let out a hollow laugh.
I settled down on the couch and offered him an amused smirk. "Are you done messing with me now?" I asked, quite pleased with my victory.
He nodded, looking everywhere but at me. "Yeppers."
I laughed. The sound echoed throughout the warehouse studio. It felt good to laugh. "Yeppers?" I asked shooting Tate a look.
He crossed his arms, looking embarrassed as he leaned back into the couch. "It just slipped out."
"That was the weirdest way to say yes that I have ever heard!"Â I laughed again.
Tate shook his head. "Don't be silly, there are SO many worse ways to say yes. There's right-o. There's righty-o. There's absopositivley. There'sâ"
I shoved him playfully. "I GET IT!" I replied with an eye roll, falling into the banter. We both fell into laughter again.
"THAT'S IT!" Michale shouted, pulling us out of our laughter and throwing us both back into the reality of the situation. "I got what I needed."
I hadn't even realized he was taking pictures. I thought he was just waiting for us to find a better pose. A better smile. A better... well to be better frankly. We sucked at posing. But apparently, we found what he was looking for amidst the pranks and play.
I stood up, suddenly uncomfortable sitting next to Tate when it was for anything other than work reasons. "Great," I replied. "What's next?"
Michale checked his notes. "We have to change the set dressings. We'll do that while you two change into your next outfit." He scanned the list of clothes. "The 'night out together,' look."
I forced myself to nod as anxiety suddenly filled my body. I knew exactly what outfit he was talking about. It had unofficially come to be called 'couples that club together have fun together,' around my office. THIS IS WHY I HAVE MODELS DO THIS!
I offered Michale a smile before slipping into the dressing room, wanting to die a little. It wasn't that I was embarrassed to be seen in the clothes. I just wished I had found anyone else to put on the clothes that Tate was about to wear.
He is going to look very, very, drool-worthy and that suuuuuucks!
...
I shouldn't have agreed to model. That was clear now. I was terrible at making decisions and that was also abundantly clear as I looked at myself in the mirror. I had modeled before but that wasn't the problem.
When I first started making clothes, I couldn't afford to hire models so I modeled most of the items I created. But as soon as I could afford to throw others in front of the camera I did. It was nerve-wracking standing under the lights, strutting with a confidence that could waiver dramatically depending on the day.
But even when I left the modeling days behind me, tried on everything we made for two reasons. One, they were pretty so, DUH. And two, if I was going to make something for the world, it had to pass the comfortable and wearable test. If it was itchy, or irritating, or straight up unflattering (not that all the clothes I wore were for my body type) then it didn't get mass-produced.
But as I stood there in clubbing clothes, meant for a couples night on the town, I was tempted to drag Susan inside and beg her to be the model instead.
I wore a very comfy black dress that hugged every part of my body, showcasing my assets. A scooped neckline swished when you moved, but had enough material to keep you from having a flashing mishap when you bent over. The style of the dress wasn't the problem. I just happened to be several inches taller than the model we had picked out to wear this particular dress. What was I thinking when I said yes to putting this on?!? It showed so much more of myself than I wished for a camera to pick up. CRAAAAPPP!
After pairing it with a set of bright red "hooker heels," that were deceptively comfortable, and smokey makeup, I had transformed into a version of myself I hadn't been since high school. The carefree party girl was a strange yet familiar site as the hair department curled my hair and pulled it up into a ponytail. If mom could see me right now.
The sudden thought of my mom made my heartache. I missed her and that loss sprouted up at the oddest times, making it hard to breathe whenever she came to mind.
I stopped for a moment to collect myself. If you could see me now mom, would you be proud? ...I mean besides this very short dress. I swear I have longer versions of this for sale! I promise.
I could just imagine her taking me in with that look of concern as I ran out the door in an outfit just like this one to meet up with friends at a club. I would give up ever designing anything ever again if I could have you back. It wasn't even a question. It wasn't something that needed to be thought through.
I was pulled from my thoughts when I spotted Susan. I quickly waved her over. "How does everything look behind the scenes? Are we getting the shots we need?"
She beamed, eyes bright. "Oh yes. You two make it look so easy. So comfortable with each other. It's amazing. If I didn't already know that he was your chauffeur, I would have totally guessed you two were dating. Best acting I have everâ"
"How do the clothes look?" I asked wanting to forget the idea of me being so comfortable with someone I hardly knew.
She nodded. "Michale is amazing. One of our best shoots to date. I can't wait for you to see the pictures. He's already promised to send you the untouched photos tonight."
I sighed, relieved that we were managing to pull it off. "Good."
"The next set is ready. As soon as Tate is done changing we can start."
I pursed my lips. "He hasn't changed yet?" He should have been done before me. How long does it take a dude to change?
Susan shook her head. "He said something about it not fitting quite right. Something about adjusting it. I'm sure it's fine."
I wasn't willing to take a chance on a guess that everything was fine. I walked straight to his dressing room and knocked on the door. "Tate? You ready?"
There was no response, but I could hear shuffling around inside. "Tate!" I called louder. "What's the holdup?"
"Uh... Is there a way I can wear a jacket with this?" he called out from behind the door.
That was a terrible sign. What did he do to my clothes?
"Not really... Is everything okay?"
"Ummm... define okay."
I swore. "Tate, just open the door."
"I think you'll kill me if I do."
Oh my gosh. "Tate I will kill you if you don't open the door. This way the door stays intact." I was met with silence. "Just open the door, please. I'm sure I can fix whatever is wrong."
I heard something thump against the door. Then his voice sounded muffled on the other side like his forehead was leaning against the door frame. "You can't fix this Fire Hydrant Girl. There is no fixing this."
"I highly doubt that, just let me in." There was a pause and then he opened the door. I stepped through and closed the door behind me. He wore a pair of black jeans and the same leather jacket from earlier. He had it zipped up to his throat, hiding whatever was wrong with the shirt underneath.
I placed my hands on my hips. "Come on Convertable Guy. I can't fix it if I can't see it." I was expecting to see a guilty smile. The Tate smile that told me he was joking. But I received a look of vulnerability. Something was wrong.
He looked away and ran his fingers through his hair. "Just... If you want me to leave... I'll get it." I waited patiently as he seemed to wrestle with something, the muscle in his jaw tensing. "I wasn't sure if I... I was going to be right for this anyway..." Then he removed his jacket.
And suddenly, I understood why he had refused to come out. Why he had thrown a jacket over his shirt. "I told you, you couldn't fix this," he whispered.
---
Thank you for reading chapter seven! I hope you are enjoying the story! Or are at least curious to see where it goes!
UPDATE DAYS - A NEW CHAPTER EVERY FRIDAY!
These two seem to enjoy messing with each other! But how much of it is actually a game?
Do you think Tate likes Allie? Or is he just having fun?
What is wrong? What can't Allie fix?
CHAPTER QUESTION - Have you ever had a wardrobe malfunction? How did that go?