Through the Lens - K.K. Allen Page 0,21

throw pillow.

I rub my arm. “Shit, dude.”

He points at me. “Watch your mouth,” he warns.

I just grin.

TAKE II

NEIGHBORLY LOVE

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” — Henry David Thoreau

Do Not Disturb

MAGGIE

Promo Girl. That’s the official title on my contract with White Water, a local distillery currently promoting their new brand of four-times-distilled organic vodka. I knew approximately zero about vodka when I started this gig a few weeks ago, and now I know far too much.

Basically, the jobs I’ve been tasked with over the past couple of weeks require minimal wardrobe, passing out liquor at twenty-one and up events, and a healthy dose of flirting with potential customers.

Tonight, I’m walking around a high-profile club in Seattle, wearing a skirt that is one bend away from revealing my ass. My mission is to persuade clubgoers to try shots of White Water vodka by plastering a smile on my face and shaking my hips in as many directions as they’ll go.

What my potential employer failed to tell me during my interview was that they’re a huge sponsor of Seattle’s NFL team and therefore attend numerous events surrounding the team. Just my luck. Tonight is one of those events where the players are my prime customers. I’m supposed to prance around the VIP area with samples and encourage them to choose White Water for their bottle service. So much for exiting modeling to avoid being objectified.

When I stressed my annoyance to Monica earlier today, she only made things worse.

“Desmond will probably be with them tonight. Be nice,” she said as she applied her mascara.

She was getting ready to spend the evening with Zach on their first date night in weeks. It was the first night he wasn’t beat up from a game or having to wake up early for practice the next morning.

“What?” I shut off my hair dryer, hoping I’d heard her wrong. “Why would Desmond be with the team? He doesn’t even play football.”

“He’s friends with all the players because of Zach. I think he goes out with them every Friday night. I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

Disappointed would have been a better word. Things have actually been going well over the past three weeks. I’ve been keeping busy with my job, which has made my relationship with Monica stronger now that I’m not constantly in her face. I work at night and sleep during the day, while she has the opposite schedule. We go for happy hours a few times a week and binge movies on my nights off. And until my sister broke the news, I hadn’t seen or heard about Desmond Blake and his kitchen from hell once in twenty-one blissful days. Now I find myself spending the first two hours of my shift dreading the possibility of his arrival—or eagerly awaiting it. I’m not sure which since I can’t stop thinking about seeing him again.

At eleven o’clock on the dot, Desmond strolls into the club like he’s one of them. He definitely looks the part, with his plain white tee that fails to hide the number of hours spent in the gym and his ass-hugging jeans like those a true Texan would wear. And his long, wavy hair looks like it’s been conditioned and prepped for a magazine cover shoot.

No one would ever suspect that the man spends the majority of his time sporting an apron.

I’m walking toward my prime clientele with a sharp eye and flirtatious smile when I see Desmond’s gaze follow me in my peripheral. Balko, Seattle’s number one tight end, is the first one to walk up to me, but he doesn’t go for the liquor. Instead, he comes right up to my ear and whispers, “Just the woman I wanted to see.”

I smirk at him because everyone knows Balko is the number one man-whore in all of Seattle. And with his dark skin, honey eyes, and long lashes, it’s no wonder he gets away with it. He is one tall, hot piece of gorgeousness that I wouldn’t mind taking home to Monica’s couch. Well, I wouldn’t mind if he’d chosen a different profession.

I would never, could never, date a football player, not after what my father did to our family. I’ve seen firsthand how football can ruin lives in more ways than one.

“Easy, Balko.” I tame him with a gentle push against his chest. “I’m working again.”

“Yes, you are, girl.” He puckers his lips, and they almost look as drunk as his eyes do as he

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