“Good man yourself,” the photographer praised and pointed the camera at Johnny, only to halt and turn to me. “Move out the way, will ya, love?” “Oh, right, sorry!” I squeaked and scrambled to back out of the line of the lens. “We were talking,” Johnny bit out. He cast a scathing glare at the photographer and then walked right over to me. “Smile,” he instructed quietly as he pulled me in to his side and clamped his huge muddy hand on my hip. Stunned, I stared up at him. “Huh?” “Smile,” Johnny repeated calmly, tucking me under his arm.
AHHHHHHHH
