Page 68 of One Wild Chance

He laughs softly. “You want a smile, Wildflower?” he asks in a low voice. “You’re going to have to earn it.”

“Earn it how, exactly?” I ask slowly.

He moves his mouth close to my ear, his breath grazing my earlobe. “Take some pictures with me, so I don’t have to do this alone.”

The sensation zips down my body. And when I turn, there it is—a smile so dangerous, it could put me into cardiac arrest.

“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” I say quietly.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas,” he says with a full-on smirk.

The no-getting-involved-with-your-coworker rule hums between us, taunting me.

His hand slips easily to the small of my back, and I get chill bumps down my arms. If I moved another inch, we’d be pressed together. The tension flooding my body is putting me into an adrenaline overload.

“Summer,” his voice rumbles.

“Huh? What?” I glance up at him.

“Are you going to take a picture?”

“Uh-huh.” I hold up the phone, then snap the shot.

Jaxon looks great—that’s no surprise. What I didn’t expect is how I look standing next to him. My face is glowing, and I look way too cozy next to him. His easy smile makes my knees weak, and I have to clear my throat so I don’t lose my mind.

“Not bad,” I say with a quick nod.

“Not bad?” he says. “That’s your money shot.”

“But I shouldn’t be in it. We need a shot of you now. With this.” I hurry toward the hay bale I set aside earlier, just to get some space. “Can you move that to the center?”

He looks at the bale, then at me. “Is this the farm equivalent of a…” He bites his lip. “Shirtless photo?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

He rubs his chin. “I saw a video once of a cowboy cooking dinner shirtless, cowboy hat on and everything.”

“It is not the same thing at all.” I shake my head, thinking he’s going to push back. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Because if that’s what you want—” He starts to pull it up a little.

“No!” I shove my hands into my hair. “Don’t you dare, Jaxon Chance.”

He’s smiling now, and I’m half furious that he’s teasing me. “I’ll keep the shirt on, then.” He strides over to the hay bale. “I can’t believe you want me to pose with this. The things I do for you.”

“It’s not for me,” I clarify. “It’s for the business. Think of all the brides who enjoy watching a man work.”

He bends down, grabs it, and lifts it in one effortless motion that makes it clear the weight is nothing for him.

I take the shot, but he doesn’t put the bale down. Instead, he holds it above his head like he’s bench-pressing it, then tries to balance it one-handed. It wobbles, then nearly falls before he catches it.

I take a few more pictures while he hams it up for the camera. He’s more comfortable being the center of attention than he lets on. I guess years of PR training have paid off.

“Okay,” I say, looking through the photos, which are gorgeous and funny and pure catnip for women. “I think I’ve got enough.”

He sets the bale down. “You’re not torturing me anymore?”

“Come on, you’re a professional athlete.” I point at him. “You’ve got this down.” He looks the part too—wearing dark jeans that show off his narrow waist and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

I flip through the photos. These are actually breathtaking. The scene behind him is blurry, while he stands in the foreground, stark and clear. It’s just a simple fact—this man was made to admire.