“Excuse me,” Zia squeaked to the assistant. “Actually I, um—”
The assistant opened a door and disappeared inside.
Zia looked left, then right. She had no idea how to get back out of the enormous building. “One more for the memoir,” she muttered, following the assistant.
A mirror dominated one wall, lined by soft yellow globes. A few people sat on a long couch, working on laptops while a couple of others were huddled into a corner in conversation. Sitting at the far end of the room, with a sheaf of paper in one hand and his phone in the other, was Clay.
“Mr. Russo, hair and makeup’s here,” the assistant announced.
Clay looked up. His eyes pulsed in surprise.
Zia inhaled, her heart hammering.
A slow smile spread across Clay’s features, like sunshine warming the corners of a dark room. All of Zia’s concerns evaporated. She smiled back and stepped forward. “Hi, Mr. Russo,” she said, channeling the easy warmth she’d seen the hair and makeup artists offer at weddings. “So nice to meet you.”
Clay was on his feet. “Hi.” The papers he was reading slid to the floor. “Hello. Hi.”
The assistant narrowed her eyes, sensing disturbance. She eyed the purse slung over Zia’s shoulder. “Wait, where’s your kit?”
Zia looked at Clay. “Clay, um…”
“I decided on a very minimal look for this shoot,” Clay said.
Zia scrabbled through her purse. She didn’t have a makeup bag, but she did have a small emergency bag, containing things like a tampon, whistle, copy of her passport. She held it up. By makeup-artist standards, it was microscopic. “I have a very down-to-earth approach.”
The assistant still looked skeptical. But after checking the time, she informed Zia she had twenty minutes, and left. No one else in the room was paying any attention to them.
“I hope this isn’t weird,” she whispered. “I just wanted to see you.”
“I’m so glad you did.” He was alert. Entirely focused on her. “Really. I wanted to see you again too.”
“What if the real makeup artist shows up?”
“She just texted. Family emergency.”
“But I don’t know how to…”
Clay waved it off. “Honestly, it’s not rocket science. And if I don’t say anything, no one else will.”
“Okay.” Surreptitiously, Zia slid Clay’s wallet back to him. When he took it, their fingertips touched. Not by accident.
Clay pocketed the wallet. “I guess you know all my secrets.”
“I didn’t look through it. I promise.”
“I believe you.”
It wasn’t just that he was beautiful, with those gold eyes and thick brows and six-pack hidden beneath his shirt. He was staring at her, rapt. And she could feel it, everywhere. The simmering heat between them threatened a rolling boil. Which it couldn’t, and shouldn’t: they were in public, and Clay had to work. They both blinked, swaying back, as if waking up to their reality at the same time.
“All right, Mr. Russo. Let’s get you ready.” She stood up behind him, determined to keep it together. The long mirror reflected a striking, perfectly passable couple. Not bad. She rested her hands on his shoulders. The hard heat of his muscles radiated through a thin cotton T-shirt. “Shall we start with hair?”
Clay’s eyes were dancing. “Absolutely, let’s start with hair.”
Zia ran her hands through his hair, relishing the chance to dig her fingers into the dark strands. Clay’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, that feels… so good.” He groaned. A low, sexy grunt. The idea of giving Clay pleasure made her insides squeeze deliciously.
One of the randos sitting on the couch glanced up at them, perturbed. Giving the talent a head massage was probably not how Hollywood makeup artists rolled. Using the only hair product she had in her bag, a travel-sized bottle of Moroccan hair oil, she began styling. Zia had never done a man’s hair before, but she treated herself to a decent haircut three or four times a year, so she tried her best to make it just-got-out-of-bed sexy.
“You have lovely hair,” she said, working the ends. “So thick. Strong.”
Clay grinned. She hadn’t meant it to sound flirtatious. “I get it from my mom, she’s Italian. What about you?”
“Puerto Rican on my dad’s side, but he’s not in the picture, and my mom’s Moroccan.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“I was born in PR, but Mom moved my older sister and me to Astoria when I was three. Mom moved back to Morocco to look after her mom a few years ago. After my abuelita passed, she stayed.”
He nodded. “¿Hablas español?”
“Sí. ¿Y tú?”
“Sí. Yo estudié en Barcelona en la universidad.”
“What did you study?”
“Theater major. You?”
“Double major in business and human services at Queensborough Community College.” Finished, Zia examined her handiwork. It sort of looked the same as when she started. “What do you think?”
His gaze stayed on her. “Hermosa,” he murmured. “My hair, I mean. My hair is very, very beautiful. I often comment on it.”
She laughed and came to sit in front of him for the makeup part of her new job. He was clean-shaven: no stubble. She reached up and smoothed his thick, unruly eyebrows. An itch she’d been waiting to scratch. A smile flitted across his lips. He liked this. He liked being touched by her. For a moment, she couldn’t do anything but admire his beauty. His eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something raw in them, hidden deep. A well she wanted to swim to the bottom of.
Clay’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Five-minute call!” The assistant slammed the door behind her. The moment shattered into a thousand shining pieces.
“Makeup,” Zia repeated, biting back a smile.
* * *
The photo shoot took place in a warehouse. Under blinding-white lights, against a white backdrop, Clay posed in a series of casual menswear outfits—leather jacket and distressed jeans, unbuttoned white shirt and white pants, some very flattering swim trunks. Zia was quite proud of her amateur makeup effort from the three products she’d found in the bottom of her purse. Tiny bit of Burt’s Bees lip gloss, little concealer under his eyes, and mascara to make his dark eyebrows extra smooth and impressive. She could never have faked it with a female celebrity, but so much less was expected of men. And Clay was already so handsome.
The shoot was fun. Zia chatted and joked with the other assistants, fitting right in. It was easy and enlivening to drop into different worlds like this. Being a chameleon was Zia’s superpower. There was nothing she liked more than ending up in the most unlikely place. She was glowing. Every time Clay caught her eye, the glow got brighter.
At the end of the shoot, Clay found her by craft services, putting some leftover salmon and tuna salad into containers she’d charmed from the caterer. Omega-3s were good for her sister’s arthritis, and Layla couldn’t afford prime cuts of fish. “Thought I’d drop some food over to my family.”
“Awesome idea.” He helped her stack them into a tote bag. “A lot of food doesn’t get eaten at these things.”