Fiona changed assistants more often than most people changed their underwear. And after the debacle at her office the other day—mistakenly calling me in and then shattering that teacup—it was a shocker she was still employed. Not to mention she was cute. Another strike against her. Fiona liked to be the best-looking woman in the room and certainly wouldn’t have hired an attractive assistant, but then again, maybe she just didn’t see it. Fiona was buffed, waxed, manicured, and Botoxed, and Emmy was au naturel—makeup-free skin that let the pink of her cheeks show, and long, straight hair that looked touchably soft.
I chuckled softly to myself. No, I definitely hadn’t expected to see her again. But it was a nice surprise. Maybe this season would be interesting after all.
I dutifully kissed Fiona’s cheek good-bye and strolled out of the room. I found Emmy still standing in the hall. The back of her head rested against the wall. Her eyes were closed and she drew deep breaths, her breasts rising and falling with each inhale. There was nothing merely cute about this girl. She was beautiful. I had an insane urge to hold her, to comfort her. Instantly, I changed my mind.
I wondered how much she’d heard of the conversation between me and Fiona and what she’d made of it. I certainly wasn’t going to offer up any explanation. My relationship with Fiona was complicated, to say the least.
“Are you okay?” My voice startled her, and her eyes flew open and darted up to mine. She didn’t answer right away; she just continued watching me. I leaned against the wall beside her and crossed my feet at the ankles.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, looking down at the plush gold and burgundy carpeting lining the hallway. “I’m fine. I’m just overtired, hungry. . . .”
She didn’t elaborate, but she was also most likely confused about what she’d just heard transpire between me and Fiona, and embarrassed for being chastised in front of me. The last thing I wanted was her thinking that it was some lover’s quarrel between me and her boss.
She remained rooted in place, pulling deep breaths into her lungs, like she was fighting for control. I wanted to reach a hand out and soothe her, brush the loose hair back from her pretty face. I wondered if her hair felt as silky as it looked. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets.
She looked up, pushed her shoulders back, and struggled to appear put together. She fixed me with a determined gray stare. “I’m fine. I’ve got to go track down that missing bag of Fiona’s.”
She turned to leave when I reached out and caught her elbow. A flash of heat zipped up my arm at the contact. That was interesting.
Emmy
His penetrating gaze held me immobile. “Don’t let her get to you.”
Her? Oh, Fiona.
“She’s only cranky because she just turned thirty-eight,” Ben said, still looking at me expectantly.
“I didn’t know it was Fiona’s birthday.”
“Yeah, last week. But she doesn’t like people to know.” His hand dropped from my elbow. It was probably clear I wasn’t going anywhere while this beautiful man was talking to me. “Plus, I think she’s pissed at me right now, so seriously, don’t worry. You’ll get the bag delivered, right?”
Oh yeah, the bag. God, Ben talking to me and looking like he was actually concerned was enough to send my brain straight to la-la land. I needed to remember I had a job to do. “Thanks. And yeah, I guess I better go track down that bag.”
He nodded and stepped back. I darted for the elevators on shaky legs. It was just jetlag. It had nothing to do with him. Yeah, right.
Once the precious bag had been located and delivered, I spent the afternoon coordinating details for the next day’s photo shoot. It would take place at a historic Paris hotel, and after confirming that the photographer, makeup artist, lighting techs, and catering would all be there, I then double-checked Fiona’s notes in the Post-it bible for anything I might have missed. I still needed to email the models to give them their call times. But first, I ordered room service. I was starved and I doubted there’d be an invite from Fiona for a nice dinner out, even though it was my first night in Paris. I’d considered trying to navigate the city and treating myself to a classy meal, but dismissed the idea. A hot shower, pajamas, and dinner in bed sounded like a much better way to end the long day I’d had.
After showering, I fell into the fluffy comforter covering the bed and situated my laptop on a pillow on my lap. I double-checked their call times and sent notes to the models for tomorrow. I wasn’t sure why, but the thought of emailing Ben was nerve-racking. My fingers trembled. I considered writing something funny and cute, maybe signing the note Blueberry Muffin Girl . . . but at the last second I chickened out and typed a brief, professionally worded email. No sense flirting with a model; I’d probably just end up looking like an idiot. Surely, hordes of girls threw themselves at him on a daily basis. Though a smiley face couldn’t hurt, could it?
From: Emerson Clarke
Subject: Photo Shoot Tomorrow
Date: May 8, 2013 19:05
To: Ben Shaw
Ben,
Please arrive at 58 rue de Fleurus at 9 a.m. tomorrow. See you then.
Emmy Clarke
Assistant to Fiona Stone, Status Model Management
Someone knocked on the door. Room service! My stomach grumbled loudly. After tipping the bellhop, I settled back into the pillows with my food and typed Ben’s name into my browser. Dinner and a show. What could be more perfect? Google Images was my entertainment for the night. Yes, I was developing a serious fetish for him. Sue me.
My email indicator flashed with a new message, and I silently cursed whoever was interrupting my sick little addiction. I opened my inbox.
Ben Shaw Re: Tomorrow
Tongue!
I laughed silently to myself, finding it cute that he both noticed my smiley face had its tongue sticking out and took the time to respond. I typed out a response.
Me: Always. :)
Oh. My. Gosh. This had to be sleep deprivation talking. Who did I think I was, flirting with a supermodel? But I didn’t have to wait long before my inbox informed me there was a new message.
Ben: Naughty little thing, aren’t you, Miss Clarke? I approve.
I read his reply twice, savoring the fact that he seemed to be flirting back. I didn’t care that I was probably living in an alternate universe. I didn’t want to come back down to earth. Chewing my lip, I hesitated with my fingers over the keyboard.
Did I ignore this message, or respond? That was the million-dollar question. Obviously, ignoring him was out of the question. Hello, nerves.
Me: Glad you approve.
I wished my mind was working properly so I could’ve written something witty and sexy. I hit send and took a bite. Before I could even swallow, he’d replied.
Ben: What are you doing?
I was currently stuffing my face with a delicious sandwich of French bread, butter, and ham, and was pretty sure I had butter smeared on my chin, but I wasn’t about to tell him that I was in bed with a sandwich, wearing my ratty sweatpants with my hair piled up in the world’s messiest bun. Wiping my mouth on a napkin, I swallowed the bite.
Me: In bed. Alone. What about you?
Ben: Alone? That’s no fun.
I giggled to myself. As I pondered what to write back, another message popped up.
Ben: I’m in bed, too. Just got back from dinner with Fiona.