“Shh. Hush.” I smiled.
“Night, darling.”
“Night night.”
Ben, still smiling, looked down at me. “Thanks for tonight. It was good to go out with someone who’s not looking for me to be the guy they see in the pictures.”
“I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to be yourself.”
He brought his hand to my jawline and his thumb skittered along my cheek. “I did. Thank you.”
“Sleep well.”
He smiled softly. “We’ll see. I’m not the best sleeper.”
I frowned. What did that mean? Wasn’t sleep a vital bodily function needed for survival? I knew it was pretty much one of my favorite things in the world. “Well, if you can’t sleep, you know you can text me.”
“Can I now?”
Captain fucking obvious.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His gaze lingered on mine for a moment, then he strode toward the door and left without another word. But really, what was there to say? Tonight had been nothing like I had expected.
After he left, I reluctantly left the warm cocoon of the bed to brush my teeth and change into my pajamas before crawling under the covers. I was nowhere near asleep when my phone chimed with a new message.
Wasn’t there some rule about texting a man back after midnight? I glanced at the clock. It was 12:20. I didn’t care. I would break the rules for Ben.
There was a dimly lit picture of Ben lying in bed. Just his chest, abs, and black boxer briefs, which were nicely filled out in the front.
I smiled to myself and shook my head. My exhaustion took a backseat if it meant flirting with Ben was an option. I liked that he’d texted me just moments after leaving. I liked the idea that he was still thinking of me. My brain refused to focus on anything else. I studied the picture more closely, imagining licking those grooves in his abs, working my way lower to bite his cock through the fabric of his boxers. Something about this man brought out my primal side.
Who was this girl? And what had she done with careful, straight-laced Emmy? Ben turned me into a flirty version of myself I didn’t quite recognize, but liked all the same. I giggled silently, my eyes glued to my phone and waiting for his response.
I needed to find a way to tell him that wasn’t happening again. I released a heavy exhale and my phone chimed again.
His message did nothing to calm my anxieties. What did I want? And why was I suddenly flooded with disappointment?
7
Emmy
By Thursday, I was ready to dropkick Fiona. We’d spent the week prepping for Ben’s upcoming campaign. She had daily meetings to discuss budgeting, location scouting, styling, and storyboarding—all while weighing me down with heaps of Post-its.
I sat at the desk in her suite and she leaned over my shoulder, as if supervising my typing skills was a necessity. I was creating a new portfolio page for Ben that included a couple of his most recent shots. Fiona would share this with the fragrance company that was considering making him their spokesmodel. I opened the photo from his Calvin Klein shoot. Ben was in just his skivvies, a lucky pair of heather-gray boxer briefs that hugged him in all the right places. I reached for the mouse to click to the next photo but Fiona’s talons caught my hand.
“Hold on.” She leaned in closer to the screen.
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye.
“This is a nice one,” I commented, trying to keep my tone neutral.
A slow smile curled Fiona’s mouth upward. “He’s a big boy.” Heat blossomed in my cheeks. Her words were confident, sure, and left me reeling. “Yes, let’s use this one, the one from his Gucci shoot and the
Still speechless, I assembled all the photos into the document. Then I added his height, measurements, and the Status Models logo before printing several color copies. Fiona slid them into her leather portfolio and began packing up her things for her meeting.
I scrubbed a hand across my face. I hadn’t heard from Ben since our encounter in my hotel room and our subsequent texting when I told him that that was a one-time thing. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. Supermodels probably weren’t used to the word
My last text to him ran through my head on repeat. He seemed to have taken it to heart, but what did I expect? Did I want him to argue with me?
I checked my phone for messages. Nothing. It was time to get ready for tonight’s cocktail mixer, anyway. I excused myself from Fiona’s room and made my way downstairs to shower, fighting off the feelings of disappointment and hurt.
Ben
I stood under the rough spray of water, letting it wash away the makeup from the shoot. It had been a tiring day. Henri, the photographer, was known for favoring a jumping style in his shoots. He liked to capture his subjects midjump to evoke a sense of movement, so I’d spent several hours leaping into the air, pushing my body into various positions and angles while keeping my face neutral and making sure the clothes and my hair remained
