Casey marched to the living room where she grabbed her bag and jacket from where it sat on the sofa.
“Casey, don’t go. Stay for dinner. We can talk.”
“You clearly don’t want to talk to me. You just want to talk at me, just like Mom always used to. Well, I don’t need it. I’m an adult. I don’t need you pretending to be worried about me all the time.”
“Pretending?” Fuck you.
Casey pulled the towel out of her hair, dropped it on my floor, and stormed out the door like a rage-filled sixteen-year-old girl might. Only Casey wasn’t sixteen. She was twenty-one.
I sighed and continued mixing up the chicken. After seasoning it and breathing in the savory aromas of the herbs, I felt compelled to text my sister but resisted. This was how it always went. I said something, she blew up, we fought, and then I wouldn’t see or hear from her for a week until she needed me again.
Classic.
Besides, I was tired. Exhausted, even. All I wanted to do was eat my dinner, maybe sip a small glass of white wine, have a bath to get rid of the lingering pond smell on my legs, and crawl into bed. How much was that to ask?
It might have been nice to have someone there with me. Someone with strong arms, a warm chest, and a smile that made me feel safe. Lexi made me feel safe, I supposed, but in a different way. I longed for someone to come home to who would know I’d been on set all day and know that I was tired, drained, and mentally fatigued. They would have dinner ready. Maybe they’d have already started running my bath.
Hell, maybe he’d join me in the bath.
Sighing, I closed my eyes and let myself envision that life while my chicken finished cooking. When it was done, I poured it over a bed of lettuce and spinach, piled it high with more veggies, goat cheese, strawberries, pecans, and balsamic vinegar, and carried it around the island to slide onto a barstool.
After my first bite, my phone buzzed.
I hung my head.
Who could that be? Maybe Casey taunting me? Sending me more pictures she’d taken in my clothes that she didn’t post online? God, I hoped she hadn’t taken any to send to a boy wearing my lingerie. She’d done it before and it looked ridiculous. She had itty bitty titties, whereas mine were heavy and full. We were five cup sizes different, but the girl could contort her body masterfully to capture a misleading image.
I checked my message. It was a text from one of my managers telling me about a last-minute shoot scheduled for tomorrow—a full day of marketing ad campaign stills.
Great.
I arrived on set the next day half an hour before I was supposed to. The sky loomed heavy overhead, dark clouds full of rain threatening to fall at any minute. Luckily, the shoot was inside an old warehouse. I’d done shoots there before and enjoyed them. Natural light poured in from the windows above and we had plenty of room to spread out indoors.
As soon as I got there I was whisked away to hair and makeup. They did me up in a pretty, natural look with bronzed cheeks. They didn’t hide my freckles. They were part of my signature look.
My makeup artist painted a flattering coppery pink on my lips while my hairstylist brushed through and loosened my curls. They sent me off to wardrobe, where I changed into my lingerie set for the shoot behind a white screen. The set was red and lacy. My nipples were barely covered by a floral lace pattern whereas the rest of the bra was totally see-through. The bottoms were a cheeky cut, and they were cut high on my hips, flattering my hourglass shape. I felt sexy in them as I admired my reflection before slipping into a silky red robe.
The assistant to the photographer came to grab me and led me to one of the corners of the warehouse, which was all done up for the shoot with a white backdrop and floor. Upon the floor were hundreds upon hundreds of red and pink roses. I picked my way delicately across them so as not to crush any petals beneath my nude high-heel shoes.
“You’ll be shooting with a partner,” the assistant said as she got me into position and checked my hair.
I shrugged out of the red robe and handed it to her. “Great, I prefer working with other models.”
“Oh, he’s not a model. You’re going to need to really shine, Laila. He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing in front of the camera, but unfortunately when it comes to marketing campaigns, the creatives don’t get much of a say.” She sighed, irritation written plainly on her creased forehead. “It would have been so much easier to use an actual model.”
“Who is he?”
The assistant forced a smile as she twirled her fingers through one of my curls, letting it fall gently in front of my shoulder. “Storm Thornton.”
Shit! I should have known!
I stifled my groan. This was not the place to show disappointment or displeasure. I was a professional, and nobody, not even Storm Thornton, could crack my level of professionalism. There was a reason photographers, agencies, and designers wanted to work with me. Not only was I exceptional at what I did, but I brought the right attitude to set every day and I never let outside sources that were out of my control get under my skin.
Today was merely another day on the job.
When Storm arrived on set I kept my chin up. I ignored him and the silky black robe he wore to cover whatever he wore underneath, even though I was desperately curious what sort of get-up they had him in. His legs and feet were bare.
He joked with the photographer for a minute and had a brief, quiet discussion. If he was smart, he would be asking for pointers and direction. If he wasn’t? Well, he’d be pissing the photographer off by wasting his time.
Within ten minutes of his arrival, Storm stood beside me on the white backdrop of roses.
He gave me a cheeky smile as he shrugged out of his robe. “Didn’t think you’d see me again, huh?”
“Perhaps not like this.” I looked pointedly down at him and his lack of clothes.
Storm’s cheeky smile stretched into an all-out cocky grin. “Not bad, huh?”
Not bad?
Not bad at all.
Storm had a body that made other models I’d worked with look like noodle boys. He was chiseled everywhere, defined everywhere, smooth almost everywhere. A trail of dark hair ran from his navel down to the waistband of his skin-tight Cupid’s Arrow boxers. They were the same shade of red as my lingerie with branding around the band that sat at just the right spot on his hips, showing off his V-cut and lower abs.
Knowing I’d been staring too long without saying something, I managed, “Red suits you.”
He chuckled. “I know.”
The photographer snapped his fingers at us. His name was Paul Demetaro, but he only responded to his last name.
Demetaro barked orders at us. “Stand closer together! Let’s get this done, my loves. I don’t have all day. Storm, I know this isn’t your wheelhouse, so all you need to worry about is doing what I say and looking handsome. You’ve already got the latter down, so pay attention.”
Storm pumped his eyebrows at me. “Even Demetaro has the hots for me.”
The camera flashed.
Storm flinched. “What the fuck?”
I struck a pose, draping an arm casually over Storm’s broad shoulder and tilting my head back, letting my hair trail behind me. I tilted my face, finding my angles and the light, parted my lips, and gazed seductively into the camera while holding a curl in the corner of my mouth.