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such a big deal.” I hear my tone sharpen a bit.
    His voice stays even. “I’ve run into a lot of egos and weird situations in the modeling and photography world. It’s better for us to do things straight up. Besides. If this book is going to be the bestseller we both think it is, we can cover the upfront cost of a simple legal contract, yeah?”
    I nod. “Fine,” I say, then feel compelled to add, “Authors do favors for each other all the time. Like, I host someone on my blog and then she writes me a review. I help tweet about someone’s release, and she recommends me to her fans on her Facebook page.”
    He gives me a look. “A contract from a lawyer friend is a hard cash favor. I don’t take handouts.”
    I shrug, put my hands up. “We’ll pay for it. Want me to talk to him today to get the draft started and we can meet later this week to sign?”
    He nods. “Do it. I’ll get Chelle to start with some of the solo shots of me. I have a bunch of jobs this week but she can do the wall shots, the pushups, the ones of me in the shower.”
    My mind shoots to the shower, imagining his body with water droplets, how nice he’d look slick and wet. I try to focus. “Great. And of course I’ll continue working on the book.” I think about my home office and remember Marr, and the way she’s redoing her entire house next door to me. I wince.
    I glance at his desk, run my fingers over the wood. “I love your setup. That window has the best lighting and side garden is so pretty… and quiet. Marr is having renovating done and the workers are so loud. All day with the power saws and the grinders. I can’t focus. I need some background chatter, but not the kind that gives me a migraine and shakes my floor. I could get so much work done here.”
    “Why don’t you?”
    “What?” My heart races.
    He steps closer, his voice intense. “You can work here, Abby. A little background noise with my models and work, but no drills. And we’ll be close, and that’s good for the project. You can coach me on shots. And if I have a good photo idea, maybe you could write it into your story. What do you say?”
    What do I say? Working with him this closely is unnecessary. But the truth is I want to be near him all day, watching him work, watching his face, his arms, hearing his voice. Even if it goes nowhere like that, it sounds… fun. Exciting. And good for my sexy-times writing, for the reason I mentioned earlier (my authorial secret writing weapon of delayed gratification.) And it would be way better than the coffee shop or the taco place with free Wi-Fi on the corner.
    I swallow. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
    “Good.” He smiles. “So from now until we finish, this space is yours.” He waves his arm toward the window desk. “I’ll get rid of all this shit so you can set it up the way you want.”
    “I don’t need a lot of room,” I protest. “Just space for my laptop and mouse. And my Starbucks.”
    “Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “You’re not bringin’ that crap into my house. I’ll make your coffee, Abby.” His voice rolls over me like a caress, and I bite my lip.
    “Okay. Then maybe I can bring breakfast.” I stop. “Uh, what do you eat in the morning? Leeks and turnips, or something? Celery?”
    He laughs. “Protein. Five or six scrambled eggs with veggies. I cook my own in organic butter or coconut oil. I’ll teach you about Paleo eating, Abs. Get you fit and healthy. Good changes.”
    I cross my arms. “I eat fine, okay? I don’t need to change anything.” I blink hard at the way my eyes swell with crazy disappointed tears, forcing them back.
    His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—I was just, you know, I know a lot about healthy eating and what’s good for the heart and cholesterol and blood pressure. I eat this way because it works, you know? Because it’s best for the body. I was just sayin’ what I say to friends who ask me to coach them on fitness. Sorry. But I wasn’t trying