“This is getting weird.” She shuffles away.
“No, it isn’t. He’s only confirming he doesn’t have hideous feet.”
“Why does he give a shit what Rowan Hudson from Dublin thinks when Camilla, the Cuban hottie, can suck his toes without remorse?”
She has a point. I shrug as the shiny bubble of magic pops up, covering me in disappointment. “It’s probably his security guy or something. I bet they’re playing a sick joke to get me back for messaging him.”
N Adams:
Was it that bad? Do the men in Dublin have better looking feet than I do? I’m glad my career isn’t sandal modeling. *wink emoji face* N
He wrote Dublin. OMIGOD. Noah has checked out my profile. “Oh, no—my profile picture.” I wince. “I haven't changed it back from Halloween when we dressed as terrible vampires.” That night, Chelsea and I polished off a bottle of vodka while we were getting ready. The photo was less than flattering, with fake blood and cheap wigs. You can just imagine the fright.
Rowan Hudson:
The toes look normal. I don’t see many feet here because it rains a lot, but I’d give them a stellar 9 out of 10. As for my scary profile picture… blame it on vodka and a pushy friend. R
N Adams:
Just a 9? What criteria is this based on? There’s more than one photo of you, Rowan. I like the vampire fangs though, very sexy. I see you’re into photography. N
Holy hell! He used my name. He typed the word sexy. “Pinch me,” I whisper. Chelsea throws a fist into my bicep. “Aaaow! What the hell?”
“What? You said punch me,” she questions, her brows pulled tight.
“Why would I ask you to punch me? I said pinch me.” I over enunciate the key word.
Chelsea nods. “Either way, the pain is real and so are the messages from lover boy.”
Rowan Hudson:
Are you sensitive about the foot ranking? No foot deserves a 10. I’m surprised you flicked past the horrific wig and unprofessional blood placement. I’m at college studying photography. R
N Adams:
I saw past the wig and fake blood. I demand to know how a foot can achieve full marks in your strict ranking system. It’s my job to impress, and it appears you aren’t. N
We’re messaging each other. Like instantly, in real time. Back and forth. Him and I. Holy fuck, I must be dreaming. I don’t hesitate with my response, just in case I wake up and miss his reply.
Rowan Hudson:
A 9 is a very respectable score, Mr. Adams. You should be pleased. My foot is probably a 7.
N Adams:
I can’t imagine your foot being less than a 10.
Is he flirting with me? I take a minute to breathe. Then, just as I start to reply, he sends another message.
N Adams:
My cab is here. I’m traveling to Brazil for a shoot. It’s been fun, Rowan. Thanks for making me laugh. N
That’s it. Our quick, nonsexual fling is over. Just like that.
Three
Alexa, my agent, struts into my city apartment, all cheery and pink lips with sleek black hair, wearing clothes paid for with my success. She's a good girl who works just as hard as I do, so I don’t resent her vested interest in my career or her big rewards. We’ve bonded over the years, developing a close friendship, even though there’s a seven-year age gap. Aside from my family, she’s one of the few people I trust implicitly. In this business, it’s rare to find true solidarity.
“Why aren’t you dressed, Noah?” She doesn’t look pleased with her amber eyes darting around the room to scout for unusual activity. “The flight leaves in a few hours.”
To the world, I’m an object of desire that women want and photographers book in advance, so my schedule fills up quickly. To her, I’m like the annoying kid brother she enjoys bossing about. “I’m nearly ready, Alexa. There’s no panic.” I toss my phone on the sheets and clamber off the bed. A pale blue tee glides over my freshly washed hair, and I pull up the zipper on my jeans. “Stop staring.” I pad across the wooden floor barefoot.
She flicks her wrist, glancing down at a thin gold watch. “I’m allowed to check you out. It’s my job to assess the physique. If you lose those abs, we both suffer.”
“And you’ve seen my workout schedule.” I flip her the bird.
Palms float to her hips, and she tips her torso. She screws up her nose to make a stupid ‘know it all’ face. “You’re a model who needs to keep in shape.” A coral-colored nail jabs the air. “And, like I said, Noah, it’s my business to make sure you stay that way.”
With my thumb hooking the hem, I hitch up my tee to give her an all access view of my stomach. I pat my rock-solid gut. “I’ve just eaten, but still, I don’t think you should worry.”
Alexa squints, trailing her eyes from my pecs to my navel. “Hmmm.” She inspects my torso like she’s assessing a horses form at the racetrack, detached from the physical aspect. “You’re in fantastic shape, pretty boy.”
I let go of my tee and fasten the belt snug to my hip bones. “The new personal trainer put me through hell this week.” I glance at my reflection in the mirror. A day's worth of unshaven prickles seems lazy, but I like it. I rarely have a smooth face because facial hair is a big trend, and it works well with my laid-back style.
I catch Alexa in the background fidgeting with her denim sleeves. She’s suddenly acting weird. It has nothing to do with my appearance. That’ll never be an issue for us. I’m not her type, and she’s bossy as fuck. “Something you want to tell me about my new trainer?”
“Nope!” she exclaims, fingering a diamond ear stud. “Nothing to report. He’s obviously putting you through your paces.” A crimson wash of guilt peeks out from the subtle opening of her pale pink satin shirt.
I eye her closely. “You’re burning up, Alexa.” I smirk. “Are you sure you’ve got nothing to tell me?”
Alexa swivels away, hiding her flustered wide eyes. “I’ll wait downstairs.” She storms to the door. This is hilarious - she’s so screwing my trainer, Felix.
I chuckle. “He’s a nice guy. Shall I put in a good word, or has that ship sailed and you’ve already docked at the harbor?” I love making her squirm. We bicker like brother and sister, her being the older, prim and proper pushy sibling.
Her head rotates. “You’re an asshole, pretty boy.” She doesn’t leave. Instead, she flips out her phone and leans her shoulder against the wall. “Hurry up.”
At eighteen, I was picked out by a talent scout in the local mall and put on the modeling agency’s books. A year later, a major fashion house saw my potential, and the rest is history. Ten years in, and I’m not just older and wiser, I'm a touch jaded too.
I didn’t go to college like the other guys I hung around with back then. While they played beer pong and puked in trash cans, I fast tracked my way to the top with a first class pass to international fame. They went one way, and I rocketed into the universe. Sadly, I can count the number of friends I have now on one hand.