I wanted to tell him not to bother, but I liked that he’d be willing to tell her about us—this, whatever this was. But maybe I was reading too much into it. It wasn’t some chivalrous act, some romantic gesture. He just didn’t want to have to sneak around for the next three months.
Ben pushed the loose strands of hair back from my face. “And about what you asked me last night . . . we’ll talk about that tonight, okay?” Ben’s big, warm palm cupped my cheek. “I didn’t forget.”
Our whispered conversation in the darkness last night came rushing back: his raw emotional state, the bathroom cabinet full of prescription bottles, Gunnar’s warning, Fiona’s possessiveness. All of it hit me like a wave. I was headed for an early nervous breakdown at this rate. But I was powerless to stop the crazy train carrying me straight for destruction. In fact, I wanted an express ticket. I nodded, pulling my shirt over my head and letting the sheet drop away once I was covered.
I knew he’d be busy all day with fittings and meetings. “Go,” I shooed him from the bed, knowing he was already late. “I’ll let myself out.”
He dropped a light kiss to my lips then rose from the bed. I stepped into my panties and jeans while Ben headed into the shower. Back to reality.
12
Emmy
After a hot shower back in my room and my usual coffee and croissant, I logged into email. The benefit of Fiona having a separate room meant her usual mode of communication—Post-it notes—was reduced to email. There was just one message, sent at one in the morning. Crap.
I sipped my coffee and stared at the offending message without opening it. I wondered if she’d commented on last night. It’d been a bold move even showing up at Ben’s birthday dinner, and then stealing the guest of honor right from under her nose. What had I been thinking? Fiona was my boss. She could fire me and send me packing at her discretion. And then what would I tell my mom? I’d gotten fired for sleeping with one of the models. God, could you imagine? I shuddered.
Opening Fiona’s email, I breathed a sigh of relief. Her note instructed me to meet her at 11 a.m. at the Yves Saint Laurent offices in the 8th arrondissement near the Champs-Élysées.
I knew Paris Fashion Week was just a few weeks away, which meant our schedule was about to get crazy.
When I arrived at the limestone building, a beautiful young receptionist sat at the sleek, marble-topped desk. Her lips were painted YSL red, her dark hair tucked into a sleek chignon.
“Bonjour,” she greeted me in a perfectly pretty and feminine accent. Great. Even the receptionist had me feeling insecure.
“Bonjour,” I returned, stopping in front of her desk. “Um, I’m with Status Model Management. I’m supposed to meet Fiona Stone,” I muttered, hoping to God she spoke English.
“Yes, this way.” She rose on precariously high black patent leather pumps—how very chic—and showed me down the hall.
The hallway was lined with guys looking to be cast in the show. Some sat on the floor, others stood, many played with their phones, while others talked quietly to the guys near them.
I pushed open the heavy door as the receptionist retreated back to the lobby. Aside from the row of chairs facing the front of the stark white room, it was empty. I spotted Fiona right away, seated with a small cluster of stylists. I approached them carefully, cursing myself for not dressing better. I was in simple khakis, sensible flats, and a white button-down shirt paired with a navy cardigan. Basically, Fiona was going to have a stroke when she saw me. But I didn’t care. I had a job to do, and I was comfortable.
I inched my way toward my boss. A male model came out from behind the curtain slung across the front of the room and began walking for the stylists. With his classic death stare in place, he strutted forward. His walk was perfect—cold and calculating, without blinking. He paused then turned and headed back behind the curtain. Today was casting for our guys, as well as fittings for the ones who had already been chosen for the show. I slid down into the chair behind Fiona. She instantly turned and looked me over with a critical sigh, shaking her head and frowning. Off to a great start, Emmy.
We watched several more guys come out and walk for the group of Yves Saint Laurent executives. I did my best to quickly pass Fiona the comp cards as each guy was announced. I’d printed off the portfolios that morning and arranged them in a binder, choosing our younger guys with dark features and intense looks, a favorite of YSL. As much as I complained about Fiona, I enjoyed my job and took pride in what I did.
John Paul from our agency, just nineteen years old and starting this career in this crazy business, came out next, dressed to kill in a beautifully tailored pin-striped suit that appeared made just for him.
“Street walk, darling,” Fiona drawled, correcting him.
His walk had been too exaggerated, too much swish in his hips. I’d come to learn street walk meant walk as naturally as you would down the street, no posing, no hands on hips. Each designer preferred a different walk. Versace was known for wanting lots of swagger and attitude, but apparently the classy folks at YSL were looking for the understated. John Paul straightened his shoulders and walked naturally down the center of the room before turning on his heel and heading back behind the curtain.
The stylist seated next to Fiona jotted notes into her iPad. I wondered if he’d made the show or not. Little things like the way your hips moved when you walked mattered so greatly in this field. It was a cutthroat business. While the models’ walks set the mood for the show, it was all about the clothes. Then fashion editors would write about the next big trends, orders would be placed, and the next year we’d all be wearing remnants inspired by these shows. It was fascinating, really.
I wasn’t expecting Ben to be here, but the production assistant announced “Ben Shaw” in the most adorable French accent. My eyes snapped up to the front.
Ben walked out from behind the curtain like he owned the room and strutted down the walkway. He looked straight ahead and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. A smile tugged at my lips. He was devastatingly handsome, outfitted from head to toe in the designer clothing. A cropped gray wool coat for fall, paired with fitted black trousers. Oh wow. He was sex on a stick. I couldn’t believe this was the same man I’d just shared a bed with. The same man who’d sleepily offered to take me to breakfast. He was absolute perfection. Ben was a professional, his walk sure and strong, his gaze cast forward, undistracted and certain. Unlike the guys who were nervous or scatted, their gazes darting to check for reactions as they walked, Ben was utter confidence, staring straight ahead and letting nothing stand in his way. Commanding. And sexy as hell.
His eyes caught mine and a lazy smile lit up his face. My body temperature ratcheted up several degrees.
Moments later, Ben turned and disappeared back behind the white curtain concealing the small changing area. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and though I knew I shouldn’t let it distract me from work, I pulled it out to see who was texting me.
To my surprise, it was Ben.
Ben: I can’t stop thinking about how good you taste.
My cheeks flamed bright red as I shielded my phone and peeked around me. No one was paying any attention to me, but that was beside the point. He couldn’t just text me things like that. We were at work.
Ben: Come back here, babe. I want that pretty pussy.
Holy shit! Was he crazy?
Me: No way! You’ll get us both in trouble. Go change into your next outfit.
Ben: Just a little taste.