You Make It Look Good

By Callie Lennox

Basketball, a disaster roommate, reluctant fashion modeling, and an about-to-start accounting career; Jake has enough on his plate without a hostile photographer on his latest shoot. A hostile, hot photographer.

Jake may be trying to come to grips with his attraction, the depth of his feelings, and whether he's going to quit modeling for good. Leo, meanwhile, just knows he wants to come to grips with Jake, the gorgeous, if snarky, model on this gig.

Leo knows what he wants, and it's Jake in his bed, in his loft apartment, and in his photographs, and in his life forever. But will Jake's fear of commitment drive them apart before he realizes this is the one man who sees him inside and out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781094401034

Callie Lennox

Callie Lennox was raised on the east coast of the U.S. on a steady diet of romance novels, sports, and travel. She now lives in New Zealand with her partner.

Book preview

Chapter One

Jake had learned not to frown too hard when one of his teammates brought in a copy of Lucky and Sachs got his hands on it and the entire fucking rec league knew by noon. He’d learned to get past all the Blue Steel trash talk real fast, because fuck them, maybe that was his model face. He wasn’t going to be crying into his paycheck about the dumb faces he made on the court, and he wasn’t going to be crying into the league trophy at the end of the season, either. Beat working at Starbucks.

At the heart of it, though, it couldn’t bug him that bad because he understood. It was all cool, whatever they wanted to say. Yeah, him, a model. He was there with them, really. He got it.

Nylon had called him on Tuesday for a job on the weekend, and he said sure, if Sunday was okay. They did weirder, more avant-garde shit than he’d ever really been up for on an intellectual level, but then,on an intellectual level modeling was mostly stupid. Besides, Nylon was money, as Franklin had randomly started saying last week, and Christmas was coming up and Bingwen Versus The Water Heater had put a dent in everyone’s wallet.

It’s just some sweaters, they told him, so he geared up for wearing some sweaters while riding creepy neon reindeer or being buried face-down in artificial snow, because he knew how the fuckers at Nylon thought.

The fuckers at Nylon apparently thought it was cool to waste a bunch of his time by hiring a photographer who didn’t even start setting up until noon, and then he spent like six fucking years moving chairs around and then, finally, he said, Where’s the model? so Jake stuck his book under his chair and got up.

Oh, hey, the photographer said. Cool. Can you run out and get me some coffee?

Uh, Jake said, aggressively buying time until he could come up with something other than fuck no, no? Then we’ll start even later.

Wait, the guy said, shoving fucking Raggedy Andy blond curls off his face. You? You’re the model? and Jake had never actually wanted to clock someone for that before, but, oh, he could throw some punches now.

Section Break

It was, to put it mildly, a total fucking shitshow and a half.

The set-up was epically stupid; at least they seemed to agree on that. The chairs were wicker-frame rustic Amish country porch things painted horrible Easter-egg colors and arranged haphazardly around Christmas trees, like if you were sitting around a bonfire except the bonfire was a plastic spruce and you were, in this scenario, being played by a chair.

So the chairs sucked. That was about where any shared disdain ended and the general animosity began.

The photographer, last name Barton, first name Jackass, didn’t like Jake’s posture, or his ass, or the way he leaned on the back of a chair when he was told to lean on the back of a chair. He didn’t like Jake’s eyebrows, or his eyes, or the staging, or, apparently, the sweaters that they were ostensibly hawking here.

That can’t be your only facial expression. They told me you’ve modelled before this, come on.

I have, Jake gritted.

"They weren’t all for Glower Monthly, Jesus, Barton snapped. The fucking sweater looks friendlier than you, and it looks like it’s made of ragweed and old newspaper," which, Jake could attest, it kind of felt like, too.

Jake took a breath, mustered his poise and gave his best, warmest, most charming face. Barton flinched back from his camera viewscreen like it was playing a scene out of The Ring.

This isn’t fucking J. Crew, he said, disgusted.

So they did that for a while. It was great. They fought, and Jake completely stopped trying, and then it became clear that Barton had stopped trying, and then Barton stopped taking pictures at all.

This isn’t working, Barton told Mimi, the fashion editor, and Jake tried real hard not to roll his eyes.

Leo, Mimi said mildly.

Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me, man, Barton snapped at Jake, so Jake rolled his eyes as hard as he physically could, so hard it actually hurt his skull a little.

Do you want to take a break? Mimi asked. Her asymmetric electric blue bob got even more asymmetric when she tilted her head to the side.

No, Barton said.

Jake’s phone buzzed angrily from his bag.

Yeah, sure, Jake said, half so he could check his texts and maybe slightly more than half in the hopes Barton would look even more like his hair was going to catch on fire some more.

you gonna make it tonight, Anjali had sent.

no worst shoot ever dickhead photog shitty itchy sweaters n the set is candyland on drugs, Jake replied.

finishing up u want anything? Anjali offered, because she did actually work at a Starbucks.

poison, Jake sent, and then Barton yelled, Break’s over, asshole, let’s get back to sulking for money, so Jake did.

Section Break

Anj somehow got herself into the shoot, maybe because carrying a coffee cup always made you look like someone’s overworked PA. She took in the set, and Jake and Barton, with a faintly amused expression, lips tugging up and to the left, before Barton realized that Jake was looking somewhere behind him and spun around.

Oh, he said, not nearly as annoyed as Jake would have expected. Someone brought you coffee?

Hey, Jake said, collecting his latte and ignoring Barton completely. How was work?

Anj shrugged. You?

This is a disaster, he said quietly, leaning closer in than he really needed to, just to get away from the misery of the room.

That’s tough, Anj said blandly, taking a sip of her coffee. She was full-on smirking now, and if Jake just held his coffee and looked at her hard enough, it felt a little like when they’d just kicked ass on the court in front of her.

Wait, whoa, Barton said. Hang on. Do that. Keep doing that.

What? Jake said.

No, Anj said viciously. She was faster on the uptake. Fuck no.

I’ll crop you out, Barton promised Anj, who glared like she’d never heard anything so revolting in her life. Jake was surprised Barton’s lens didn’t crack.

No, Anj repeated. Barton looked like he was struggling with some great internal debate, and if he had the nuts to shoot Anj right now, well, Jake would say a few impressed words at his funeral.

Fine, Barton muttered, and Jake honestly respected him for the better part of valor there.

See you tomorrow, Anj told Jake, and left.

Coaches, Jake said, because that’s what the team always said when Anj did something slightly psychotic, but this was the wrong audience, fuck; he was kicking himself as Mimi’s mouth opened slightly—

Too mean to live, too clutch to die, Barton agreed.

Jake blinked at him.

You know what? Barton said. Take the sweater off.

We’re selling the sweater, Mimi protested, before Jake did more than open his mouth to make the same point, thank you.

We’re not really selling anything, Barton said to her, then turned to Jake, except this terrifying blend of ennui, rage, and judgy-face you’ve got going on, and the sweater makes you look even more like a brick shithouse, so just—take it off. It’s six grand of ugly and you make it look even uglier.

It’s six grand? Jake boggled, momentarily forgetting to pick up his end of the fight. Are you serious?

These are a new, exclusive— Mimi started.

Six fucking thousand dollars, Sullivan, Barton said. Yeah. You could commission, like, an actual piece of art for that, but hey. Gotta sell those sweaters, am I right?

It’s itchy, Jake said wonderingly, staring down at the hem in bemused horror. It makes my neck itch. When he looked up, Barton was smiling at him indulgently, the first non-pissed-off expression Jake had seen from him.

So take it off, he suggested.

Fine, Jake yanked the sweater up over his head. It got stuck around the elbows a little bit, but he managed to peel it off as the shutter clicked, dropping it on a hell-chair to pat his hair back into place.

Awesome, Barton said, sounding genuinely pleased. Put it back on.

I just took it off, Jake said.

No shit, Manitoba, Barton said. Right, crap, Jake was still wearing the threadbare, once-blue Welcome to Winnipeg T-shirt he got at a fucking craft fair. On. And then take it off again.

Jake obliged, because Barton appeared to think he was actually on to something here, and the sooner they got a couple good shots the sooner Jake went home and finished his tax law homework. He must have undressed and re-dressed upwards of twelve times, and it was anyone’s guess how many more he’d have done if he hadn’t accidentally flailed his hand into a metal support pole and given himself the mother of all static shocks.

Augh, fuck, Jake yelled, shaking his hand.

Oh, my God, I’m sorry, Barton said. Jesus, shit, dude.

Motherfucker, Jake complained. He was sorely tempted to stick his fingers in his mouth, even though he knew it wouldn’t do anything.

Wow, that was loud. Sorry, Barton said again.

Can—are we done? Jake said a little plaintively. He could put the sweater back on, and he would, if Barton said he had to, but he really hated it a whole lot right now.

Yeah, I think so, Barton said absently, flipping through his camera roll in double time. Yeah. We’re fine. This is—some of these are really good.

Cool, Jake said. Not that he was all that invested in whether he looked good in photoshoots, since half the time photographers were deliberately trying to make him look stoned, or concussed, or smarmy as fuck, but it was nice to hear this hadn’t been a complete waste of time.

Come on, Jake, Mimi said. Grab your stuff and I’ll sign your check. Leo, do you need anything?

Huh? Uh, no, Barton said. Thanks, Jake.

Thank you, Jake replied automatically. He was Canadian; he couldn’t help it.

Chapter Two

Jake didn’t actually buy any of the magazines he worked for, because they sold ugly, scratchy, six-thousand-dollar sweaters. He used to; he used to pick up whichever copy of whatever rag he’d gotten into and tried to remember when and where he’d been standing, tried to figure out the best way to do it when he did it the next time.

He’d learned since then that he