I found my seat and settled in. I wondered if I was allowed to take any photos with my camera phone. But I supposed I could find photos of Ben later online. There were a million photographers here, their flashes already popping like crazy.
I saw Fiona slip into her seat in the front and I knew the show was about to start. Little butterflies danced in my belly in anticipation.
Hot lights and flashing cameras flooded the stage. Loud gyrating music thumped through the sound system. I didn’t know the order or when I would see Ben. Some shows lasted only seven or eight minutes; others were closer to twenty. It just depended on how many looks they had to show, and I didn’t know how many exits he had.
The first of the models began walking and a slow smile overtook my face. I was here, in Paris, at my first fashion show. The feeling was surreal. I watched in transfixed fascination as the parade of beautiful men marched confidently down the catwalk. This season was all about bold colors, solids, blacks and whites, and lesser-used animal prints . . . apparently snakeskin was going to be big next year.
Suddenly Ben was there, strutting beautifully toward me on the runway. He was utter perfection. Confident, sure, and sexy as hell. His walk was poised, his chin up, and his dark gaze straight ahead. My eyes wandered the length of his body, taking in the charcoal-gray suit and bold red tie. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder. Never had a slim-cut suit and a murse looked more sexy.
I knew he didn’t get to keep the clothes, but damn, I wouldn’t mind slowly undressing him later, unwrapping him like a present. My pulse kicked up at the thought. With all the after parties to follow, I only hoped I could get some alone time with him.
• • •
Once the shows ended for the day, I scrambled backstage to find him. It was insanity: photographers, designers, and models everywhere. And everyone was in a celebratory mood. Drugs, alcohol, naked people.
Wow
. Giving up any hope of finding him, I sent him a text telling him I’d see him at the afterparty and headed out.
After swinging by the hotel to change into something more evening-appropriate—skinny black ankle pants paired with a silk purple halter top and strappy silver sandals—I navigated to the Metro that I’d grown comfortable taking over the past several weeks.
When I arrived at the hotel where the afterparty was being held, I felt out of place and awkward as I made my way inside the elegant hotel. Stopping at the front desk, the reception staff directed me to take the elevator to the third-floor ballroom.
I was not at all prepared for the scene that greeted me. Low house music thumped from the speakers, and along with the dim lighting, set an evocative mood. Plush white sofas were arranged in a U shape and filled with stick-thin female models chatting amicably. I continued past them, feeling like I was back in my high school cafeteria, passing the cool-kids table to sit alone in the corner.
Needing some liquid courage, I approached the bar before seeking out Ben. Or even Gunnar. Any friendly face would do. But first I wanted a drink in my hands. I preferred an icy-cold beer but opted for a glass of champagne, which seemed to be the drink of choice tonight.
I took a sip of the semisweet, chilled champagne and closed my eyes. I hated how out of place I felt. It was obvious who the models were and who the regular people were. I was too short, too curvy. Never had I been more aware of my body than standing in that room of size-zero women. I headed farther down the bar to an empty stool, where I could sit and take the pressure off my feet. Damn pinching heels. Easing into the modern half-moon–shaped seat, I noticed the man next to me, head down, sipping his beer quietly.
He must have noticed the way I longed for his bottle of beer because, just seconds later, he signaled and nodded to the bartender, and a beer was uncapped and placed in front of me.
I turned to him, all smiles for the first time tonight. “Was I that obvious?”
He smiled easily, his features open and friendly. “Braydon Kincaid.” He extended a hand toward me.
“Emmy Clarke.” I placed my palm against his. “And thanks for the beer.”
“Anytime.” It was obvious he was a model. He was tall, at least a couple inches over six feet, and his body, while lean, was toned and firm with muscle. His hair was a shade lighter than Ben’s—a mix of warm brown and blond—and his eyes were a striking blue.
Braydon turned fully in my direction, still watching me as I tilted the bottle to my lips and took a long sip. I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation, but something about him set me at ease, more than it probably should have.
Swallowing the icy gulp, I turned to face him. “Were you in some of the shows today?”
He took a pull of his own beer, the broad column of his throat working as he swallowed. It was hard not to be affected by this man physically. He truly was gorgeous. “Armani, Prada, Iceberg, Jil Sander, and Calvin Klein. Fun stuff.”
“Oh, now I remember. You opened the Jil Sander show. You were the one wearing those hot-pink pants.”
He smiled, his eyes sparkling on mine. “You caught me. They were giving out samples after the show, but I don’t think I’ll need to wear those ever again. I’d like to keep my man card, thank you very much.”
I laughed easily, instantly put at ease around him despite only knowing him a few minutes.
“So what do you do?” he asked. He’d worded it in a polite way, but it was obvious he knew I was not a model.
“I work for Fiona Stone.”
“Ah, I see.” The knowing smile that tugged at this mouth told me he was familiar with her, but I didn’t probe any further. Most people had heard of her or Status Model Management. That was no surprise. But I didn’t feel like swapping Fiona horror stories, so I let it drop.
“And I think you should be proud being dressed in pink today. It takes a damn confident man to pull that off,” I said, changing the subject away from myself.
He shook his head. “Yeah, I’m sure my parents would be real proud. I had a manicure today and strutted the catwalk in pink. Every father’s dream right there.”
I laughed, though I wondered if there was any truth in his words and if his dad approved of his chosen profession. “Where are you from?” Mention of his family had me wondering where he grew up. His accent was definitely American.
“Ohio. What about you?”
“Tennessee.”
“I should have guessed.”
“Why, my accent?” I was used to people commenting on it.
“Yep.” He grinned. The small talk relaxed me. We each took a sip of our beer and let the comfortable silence permeate the air around us.
Braydon’s knees brushed mine and I couldn’t help but notice the dark wanting in his deep blue gaze. It made my skin tingle.
“I should go look for my friends.” My voice had gone all husky and low and I cleared my throat. “Thank you for the beer.”
Braydon lifted my hand from my side and pressed it to his lips. “Anytime, jellybean.” His playful words, the glint in his eyes, and the soft press of his lips against my skin sent a zip of heat rushing through my core.
I swallowed roughly, my eyes lingering on his. When I finally moved away, it was on shaky legs.
Crossing the room, I headed straight into the more dimly lit VIP lounge area. Mirrored walls and spinning disco balls threw off little flecks of color that bounced across the room. The effect was disorienting.
I spotted Ben on the far end of the room seated with a group of guys and girls on one of the white leather sofas. He hadn’t yet noticed me, and when I got closer I spotted thin lines of white powder drawn on the table in front of them. While Ben and I had never discussed drug use, I had assumed he didn’t use. Now I wasn’t so sure.
He held a glass of amber-colored liquor and his eyes were a bit glazed. Panic gripped me, my stomach dropping to my feet. Maybe I didn’t know him at all. When his eyes met mine, recognition crossed his features. He sat up straighter in his seat, pulling away slightly from the waiflike girl tucked in by his side.
“Emmy.” He reached a hand toward me and I took it, easing in between him and the model beside him. I didn’t know her name but her face was familiar. I was pretty sure I’d seen her in the Prada show earlier. Rather than squeezing myself between them, I remained standing, wedged between the sofa and low coffee table near Ben’s knees. He looked up at me, his smile somewhat somber.
Suddenly I didn’t want to be there. I wasn’t part of that scene. Drugs weren’t okay with me, and sitting back and enjoying a drink felt like I’d be condoning the cocaine use going on around us. And I certainly didn’t. Call me stuck up, prudish, whatever you want, but going back to my room and taking a bubble bath sounded a lot more appealing than hanging out with these people.
“I think I’m going to go.”
Ben rose, unsteady on his feet. “Then I’ll take you back.”
I gripped his bicep, keeping him steady. It looked like I’d be the one taking him back. I’d never seen him this drunk. And something in me didn’t like it. I worried for him. How much had he drank, and should he be drinking so heavily on his medications? I helped him maneuver from where we stood in the space between the table and sofa.
As we made our way through the center of the room, I looped an arm around his waist to keep him walking on a straight path. I’d never seen him so smashed, and I couldn’t say I was a fan. I knew from experience there was nothing fun about taking care of someone drunk, and likely to be sick later.
Yay, me.
Ben staggered toward the door, clutching a hand around my hip. “Thanks, baby.”
I was willing to guess he hadn’t eaten a thing all day. I swear, no one fed these models. At least I hoped that was all this was—too much alcohol on an empty stomach. I fought to keep us both heading in the right direction, keeping my hold on Ben, my handbag and trying to balance on my stiletto heels. I felt a large hand close around my elbow.
“I’ve got him.” The familiar deep voice from earlier—Braydon—said from behind me.
I released my hold on Ben and allowed him to step between us. He tossed one arm under Ben’s shoulder, easily guiding him to the elevator.
I trailed behind them, slightly embarrassed.
“Too much to drink, buddy?” Braydon asked him once we were all inside the elevator.
Ben gave a nod, recognition flashing in his eyes as he appraised the man standing before him. “Bray.”
Braydon stepped closer, pulling me inside the doors while keeping his hold on Ben.
Braydon’s hand remained glued to my hip, holding me near him. The heat from his hand simmered up my side, pushing my nipples against the lace of my bra. My body was curious about him, even if my mind was wrapped up with Ben.
“You gonna share this one with me?” Braydon asked Ben, his eyes still on mine.
Ben shoved an uncoordinated hand into Braydon’s shoulder. “No, asshole.” His voice was flat, not amused.
Had they shared women before? And why was this information like a shot of adrenaline to my system? These two beautiful men worshipping the same woman? Holy shit. I felt weak.
I bent down to adjust the strap of my sandal digging into my ankle. Keeping one hand on Ben’s shoulder to steady him, Braydon reached for me, relieving me of the handbag that dangled awkwardly from my arm. He slipped the strap over his wrist and winked at me. “Let me help.”
I met his kind eyes and smiled, seemingly at a loss for words around this tall, fair-haired, gorgeous man. A man who currently had a pink wristlet dangling from his thick forearm.
“Which hotel are you guys at?”
I gave him the name, still wondering how he knew Ben and why he was being so nice to me.
“I’ll get a car.”
I’d taken the Metro here but figured trying to get a drunk Ben on and off the subway wasn’t an adventure I particularly wanted to experience right now. Or ever. Not to mention he didn’t need paparazzi. We wouldn’t want someone to realize who he was and start snapping pictures—especially given that Paris was crawling with photographers during Fashion Week.
I sat in the back of the car, wedged between the two men. Ben took my hand and held it in his lap. He leaned his head back against the seat rest and mumbled apologies to me.
“Braydon?”
“Hmm?”
I was too aware of his body heat next to mine, his leg occasionally bumping my thigh. “You don’t think he . . . took something, do you?”
“Drugs? Nah. Ben doesn’t touch that shit. Never has.”
I wasn’t sure how Braydon knew that, or the extent of their relationship, but his confidence set my mind at ease.
When we reached the hotel, I woke Ben and he seemed to have sobered up a bit on the twenty-minute ride back. Once inside the room, he fell heavily onto the bed, leaving Braydon and me standing awkwardly at the foot of the mattress, staring at each other.
“Emmy, come here . . .” Ben pulled me down onto the bed with him and nuzzled into my neck, breathing in the scent of my hair. His hand moved from my waist down to my behind, cupping my bottom and giving it a gentle squeeze.
He turned to address Braydon. “Thanks for the lift, but time to go, Bray.”
Braydon chuckled softly. “I don’t think so, man. It’s called whiskey dick. You’re not getting any tonight. Besides, you wouldn’t be much use to her.” Braydon’s navy-blue gaze met mine and I shuddered.
Ben’s grip on me tightened. “I always make Emmy come.”
Gah!
“Okay, story time’s over.” I excused myself from Ben’s grasp as my cheeks heated. Apparently Ben needed a muzzle when he was drunk. I crossed the room and grabbed the phone. “I think I’ll order some room service. See if giving him something to eat helps.” I looked at Braydon. “Would you like something?”
Braydon smiled lightly, removing my purse from his arm and handing it to me. “Sure. I could stay for a bit.”
I ordered sandwiches and bottles of water and we sat on the bed and ate. Ben nibbled at his, but I was happy to see him drink an entire bottle of water. He then stripped down to his boxer briefs and lay down on the bed, obviously not shy about getting undressed in front of another man. Braydon and I exchanged a smile. I was relieved to have the company, and to have Ben safely tucked into bed.