Working It

His question took a moment to resonate. Oh yeah, my legs. The humiliation had blocked out the pain. But now that he mentioned it, I realized they were tingling where they’d been splattered with the searing water. With his gaze so intent on mine, it took me a moment to remind my mouth how to work properly.

“Just on my legs,” I stammered. Brilliant. Put a gorgeous man in front of me and I became a bumbling idiot. This job did not bode well for my self-esteem.

His eyes fell to my naked shins and I forgot all about the burn.

Fiona appeared, dropping a tube of lipstick into her Fendi handbag. That thing cost more than I made in a month. She lifted her chin, sniffing the air. “What is that smell?” Her face twisted in repulsion. She looked from Ben to me. All I could smell was the mouthwatering goodness of baked treats emanating from the container on my desk. “It smells like processed sugar.” Frown lines deepened around Fiona’s mouth.

“I baked blueberry muffins for the office.” I opened the lid and the most delicious scent wafted out, reminding my stomach that I’d skipped breakfast in lieu of taking the time to dress in something presentable and straighten my hair. “Would you like one before I put them in the kitchenette?”

Ben’s gaze flicked down to the floor as he tried to hide a smile. Fiona looked at me like I was mentally unstable, like I was trying to serve her a pile of manure rather than a homemade blueberry muffin.

What was her problem? Guess my gesture of goodwill was a dumb idea. I sniffled and raised my chin. I was damn proud of my muffins. But the look of disdain dripping from Fiona’s pouty red mouth instantly told me bringing baked goods into a modeling agency was akin to killing a puppy. Slowly, Fiona groaned and strode away. I looked down at my burned, tea-splattered legs and my self-confidence fell to an all-time low.

“Hey, Blueberry Muffin Girl . . .” Ben’s voice was low and authoritative, drawing my eyes back up to his. He fixed me with that sexy stare. “Make sure you put some ice on your burn.” His expression was flirty and kind, even if his concern felt out of place.

Forming words wasn’t possible at the moment, but I managed a nod. Ben followed after Fiona, chuckling to himself. I heard snickers around me. They’re probably taking bets on how long I’ll stick around.

2

Emmy

I thanked the gods it was Friday as I dragged my sorry carcass into the apartment I shared with Ellie. I wanted to do nothing more than slip into a pair of sweats, eat take-out Chinese food, and drink mass quantities of cheap wine. And after the day I’d had, I might have needed my own bottle.

Ellie was already in the kitchen when I arrived with apparently the same thought. She was opening a bottle of wine, or rather, wrestling the cork out of it. Our corkscrew really was a piece of crap.

“Emmy!” she called when she saw me. “Survive another week?”

“Yup.” I pulled off my jacket and tossed it on the cluttered dining room table. “Thank God.”

“Good, because I was a bit worried you weren’t going to make it and, I mean, the chance to go live in Paris for three months? I’d work for Satan himself. I’d even have his babies.”

I laughed and accepted the filled-to-the-brim glass from her. “Well, before you go spawn with Satan, I’m not cleared yet. I know for a fact she hasn’t bought my ticket.”

Ellie pushed her sexy-nerd glasses up higher on her nose and took a sip of her wine. “Please, if you’ve made it through her temper tantrums and snotty insults this far without going postal, you’re golden. I would’ve cracked that first day. What was her comment again . . . Kmart chic?”

I shuddered at the memory. It was my first day. We had sat in Fiona’s opulent office covering the basic roles and responsibilities of my new job. She’d brought up the dress code and said she had an image to maintain and my Kmart-chic wardrobe wouldn’t be tolerated. I had been dressed according to the dress code—or so I’d thought—in black pants and a button-down top. No matter. What Fiona didn’t understand was that a few nasty comments weren’t going to drive me away.

I’d always wanted more out of life, and with my parents’ encouragement I’d set my standards fairly high, attending a state university on a scholarship and getting my degree in communications and fashion design. I didn’t need an Ivy League education and a six-figure job offer. I just wanted to break free from the financial stress of living paycheck to paycheck like my parents.

I had lived the quintessential simple upbringing while constantly striving for that ever-out-of-reach American dream. Underpaid, hardworking parents. Double-wide trailer in a one-stoplight town in western Tennessee with a jock younger brother who delivered idle threats to any guy who showed even the slightest interest in me. Climbing trees in my younger years, cheerleading and sleepovers in high school.

So after graduating from college and landing a job as an assistant at a prestigious modeling agency in NYC, I was well on my way. I would make this work.

My roommate pulled out cheese and crackers then set them on the counter, jarring me from my thoughts. She munched on a cracker and sipped her wine. I watched her and smiled.

She was spunky and fun and I was glad to be subletting a room from her, but we were from totally different walks of life. Ellie was a sassy New Yorker who didn’t let anyone blink at her the wrong way without making some sassy comment in retaliation. Being the opposite, I’d been known to stop on the side of the road to help ducks cross the street and couldn’t walk by a homeless person without giving him my last few bucks.

“Okay, we need to prep you for your Euro-adventure! You’ll need a makeover; we’ll get you smokin’ for all that hot-male-model action. New clothes. Haircut. No more carbs. Wine doesn’t count,” she added, urging me to take another sip.

I laughed at her enthusiasm. “Whoa there! There will be no model action in my future,” I assured her. I didn’t need a one-way ticket to heartbreak city. No thanks.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking about Ben Shaw again. Those intense, sexy eyes, his full lips . . .

I’d thought of him constantly since our awkward tea-spilling, blueberry muffin–peddling run-in earlier. Ben was the reason Fiona and I were even going to Paris and Milan. As the agency “It-boy,” he’d been booked for several spring campaigns in some of the hottest fashion markets in the world. And Fiona, superbad at disguising her crush on the poor man, told me that she always traveled with Ben when he went on extended assignments. I couldn’t blame her, though. I was pretty damn close to crush territory myself.

Ellie thoughtfully swirled the wine in her glass. “We should also make sure you get some nookie before you go; otherwise you’ll be a horny mess.”

“What?” I laughed again. “No, I won’t. I’m a professional, unlike you.”

Ellie shook her head and snorted. I didn’t want to be the one to burst her bubble that many of the male models were gay anyways.

She grabbed the menu for the deli across the street, picked up her phone, and dialed. “Yes, two spinach salads with grilled chicken.”

I raised my eyebrows at her.

“No carbs,” she mouthed to me. It was a little disheartening to be informed by your roommate that you needed to slim down. Sure, I could probably stand to lose a few pounds, but spinach, seriously? That was ridiculous.

“You’re going to be in the company of male models for the next few months,” she explained after ending the call.

I didn’t think Ellie understood that I’d be working, not competing on a game show to find my future husband.

But then I made the mistake of thinking of Ben.

Honest to God, I would never eat another carb again.

While he and Fiona had been out to lunch, I’d opened his file. That way I could snoop in peace without her watching over my shoulder. He was perfection. Textbook perfect. If I had to draw up the specs for my perfect man, Ben Shaw is what God, or Cupid, or whoever would’ve delivered to me wrapped in a bow. Tall, broad shouldered, and blessed with chiseled dark features. The pictures of him shirtless, or better yet, in a pair of briefs, really sent my pulse racing. Smooth, rounded pecs, golden skin, a well-defined six-pack, full pouting mouth, and