him in purposeful strides toward our table. He crossed the room like he owned it, like he was walking a runway. It was captivating.
He turned his body fully toward mine and treated me to direct eye contact for several long seconds. His eyes were so expressive, so intense that my blood pumped faster, my heart working harder just from his attention. It was startling.
My eyes fell to my lap, but I could still feel him watching me. My skin erupted into flames and my heart kicked up a notch remembering the way his mouth felt on mine, how his fingers pumped into me until I came. I gripped the table in front of me just to keep from falling from my seat.
Fiona stood to greet him, kissing both cheeks in her customary way, and then introduced him to the executives who were there to meet the man behind the pictures. I could already tell there would be some serious wooing tonight. They wanted him. And were practically salivating just from meeting him. I was sure Fiona would be in a happy mood, realizing they’d likely book him for several more large campaigns this season and next. I could almost see the dollar signs in her eyes as she introduced Ben around. He smiled and shook hands, but I could tell something was wrong. He bit down, his jaw clenching as he quietly slipped into the seat next to Fiona.
What was supposed to be a casual night out Fiona had turned into a promotional opportunity to sell Ben. She pulled a stack of the new comp cards and passed them across the table. Ben smiled and fielded questions, turning up the charm like Fiona expected. But I could tell he wasn’t happy. I found myself wondering if he ever got a day off, just time to himself—time to not be the model everyone clamored for.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt bad for him. He was gorgeous, wealthy, well traveled, multilingual—yet I did. A tiny piece of me felt bad that he probably didn’t know the simple pleasures of being utterly carefree, able to eat whatever he wanted. Hell, eating enough comfort food to ensure a breakout and an increased pants size were practically the norm after a good breakup. Ben had probably never had that luxury.
He pulled out his phone, checking his schedule as they discussed the upcoming campaigns. Had he known tonight was going to be about work, I’m guessing he would have brought along Gunnar.
Fiona leaned across and whispered in Ben’s ear. She tried to keep her features relaxed, glancing up nervously at their guests, but Ben made no apologies for his pissed-off look.
Fiona thrust her camera at me. “Take a group shot of us, will you?”
I accepted the camera and stood, heading around the front of the table. “Squeeze in a little.”
Fiona threw one arm around Ben, the other around the French executive on her left, and proudly beamed.
“We’ll get the waitress to take it. Emmy should be in the photo, too,” Ben said.
The look Fiona shot him was pure venom. He should know better than to try to stick up for me. “Not wearing that, she’s not. Pierre, if you sign us up, you may have to throw in a new dress for this one.”
She waved a dismissive hand in my direction. All their eyes found me, and the wave of laughter at Fiona’s joke hit me like a smack to the face. I swallowed hard and kept my chin up. I counted to three and snapped the photo, mentally high-fiving myself that Fiona’s eyes were half closed in the picture. She looked like a stroke victim. I inwardly giggled.
“It’s perfect.” I turned the camera off and passed it back to her. Then I excused myself.
I tried not to get emotional, not to let Fiona bother me. But I was PMSing. Bad. And I knew that wasn’t a promise I could keep. I made it to the restroom and ducked into a stall, blinking against the stupid tears filling my eyes. This was supposed to be a great adventure—working for the elite Status Models agency, living abroad, making something of myself. But it was times like this that I missed home. I missed the smell of Tennessee and fresh-cut grass, lazy Sundays watching football with my dad, and the fact that the guys at home weren’t supermodels. They drove mud-encrusted trucks and wore holey jeans. And they didn’t send me into a near panic attack with their sexiness, either.
I sucked a cleansing breath into my lungs. I wouldn’t let Fiona win. And things with Ben were . . . confusing . . . but fine. Yes, everything would be fine. I smoothed the dress that I now despised over my hips and studied myself in the mirror. My brown hair had gone flat. My eyes were tinged in red and I looked pale. Screw it. I exited the bathroom, needing this night to end. Stat.
Ben
Tonight was supposed to be a relaxing night out—not some circus where I felt the need to sell myself to these douche bag executives. And Fiona commenting on Emmy’s dress like that was utter bullshit. I fought to keep my anger under control. “Fiona, can I have a word?”
She nodded tightly and rose, following me from the table.
I took a deep breath. I could handle myself and whatever tasks Fiona threw my way. But I was bothered by how she treated Emmy. We paused in the corridor, facing each other. “Take it easy on Emmy, all right? She’s not used to this world.”
Her mouth pulled into a frown. “I don’t want you distracted by some country bumpkin.”
Biting down, my jaw tensed. I shook my head. I knew I needed to handle this the right way. Things with Fiona were delicate. Always had been. And our past was complicated, to say the least. I reached out toward her, smoothing a hand up and down her arm. Her lips quirked up at the contact. I knew just how to make her putty in my hands. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, love.”
I should have been thrilled with the amount of work Fiona had lined up for me this season. I was set to appear in all the major campaigns, walk in several big shows, and make a slew of money. Yet, all I wanted to do was go back to the hotel, hang out with Emmy, and maybe take her to Luxembourg Gardens. I wanted to see how her pretty pink skin looked in the afternoon sun. I used to go there with my mother when we’d briefly lived in Paris. Emmy and I could walk to a cafe, sip wine, and I could hear all about her growing up in Tennessee. Surely, her childhood had been much different from mine.
I had never let anything get in the way of my work. I didn’t know what it was about this girl, but I liked her. I wanted to get to know her more. And I wouldn’t mind getting her naked. Her skin was so soft, her body a thing of wonder. She had curves. Real curves. Not like the models I was used to. Her tits were full and heavy. Fuck, I wanted to suckle those babies. I wouldn’t mind kissing her all over, for that matter.
I shook away the thought, focusing on Fiona again. She was discussing my spring campaign. I’d show up and do whatever she wanted me to. We both knew that. And Gunnar, or Emmy, would make sure I got where I needed to be.
“I mean it, Fiona. Relax, okay?” I turned without waiting for her response and strolled into the men’s room. Sooner or later I would need to make a break from her.
Emmy
Exiting the restroom, I ran smack into something hard. Ben.
“S-sorry.” I stumbled back a step, smoothing shaky hands down his lapels. He was standing in the hallway, leaning against the hall. Was he waiting for me?
“Everything okay?” His eyes saw too much. When he looked at me like that, I felt it deep inside my body. I ached to know the intensity that lurked behind those hazel eyes.
“Fine,” I bit out.
The enormity of everything hit me. I was thousands of miles from home, my boss hated me, and I was in over my head with Ben. Tears welled in my eyes. I hated that I was about to cry in front of him. It all hit me in that moment, and there was no stopping my tears now. I was half a world away and out of my depth. A lone teardrop rolled down my cheek.
“It’s all right.” He reached a hand out for me and I took a step back, quickly wiping my cheek.
“I think I’m going to head out.” My voice sounded surprisingly composed. Thank God for that. Small miracle considering my emotional state. Damn PMS.
“It’s not true, you know.” His voice in comparison was thick, husky, and rolled over me in the most sensual way.
“What?”
“What Fiona said.” His gaze lowered, sliding over my curves.
