Get my bags and meet me at the hotel.
She’d left.
Well wasn’t that just craptastic? I had no idea what her bags looked like, so I was forced to wait until everyone from our flight had taken theirs and then read the little tags on the dozen or so bags left unclaimed.
She had a whole fleet of luggage. Louis Vuitton, of course. It was a wonder she trusted me with it. After wrestling her bags and mine out to the curb and tracking down a shuttle, nearly two hours had passed before I made it to the hotel: an upscale, boutique affair in Saint Germain in the lovely 6th arrondissement.
Stepping from the cab, the mouthwatering smell of coffee and croissants hit my nose. People sat clustered in outdoor cafés under umbrella tables, sipping espresso and eating pastries. Water flowed down the gutters as the streets were flushed clean, and elderly people fed the pigeons. The golden glow of the sun hitting the old, stone buildings and the brilliant bright blue sky seemed to transform the city streets into something magical. Romantic, cultured, and pretty.
A place where anything could happen.
The hotel lobby was quaint and simply appointed with a large oak desk, buffed marble floors, and colorful tapestries hanging on the walls. After a quick check-in, I stepped into the antique elevator, praying it would support the weight of all the luggage.
My room was as tiny as I had expected. Though the hotel was quite upscale, my room held little more than a bed dressed in fluffy white linens. There was a wardrobe pushed into the corner and a TV mounted on the wall. Gauzy cream curtains framed the tall, narrow windows, lending the efficient room a pretty and enchanting vibe. It would be my home away from home.
Anticipating Fiona’s many demands, I planned to meet with the front-desk staff to understand the Paris subway map. Best to be preemptive, since I knew I’d likely be running around the city fetching whatever Fiona needed at a moment’s notice, and my learning curve was likely to be steep, having never set foot outside the U.S. Plus, my French was limited to
bonjour
and
merci
. But first, I needed to get Fiona’s bags to her room. They quite literally didn’t fit in my own.
After wrestling them in and out of the tiny elevator, I was sweaty and more than a little grumpy as I stood at the door to Fiona’s top-floor suite. The door was left cracked open, and I gave a quick but firm knock before pushing it open.
No one answered, but I could hear muted voices in the adjoining room.
Entering the living room with plush sofas and a TV, I dragged the suitcases in after me. Voices leaked from the bedroom. Fiona was with a man. And apparently they were in a heated discussion.
Awkward
. . .
I could leave the bags and sneak away unnoticed. I wasn’t in the mood to face a grumpy Fiona. My agenda included a hot shower and a nap.
After stacking her bags in the corner, I froze. I recognized the man’s voice. Deep and rich with a confident tone.
Ben
.
My body responded instantly, my nipples hardening against my bra and my pulse jumping erratically. My body’s responses to him were anything but normal.
Unable to resist getting a look at him, I tiptoed closer to the doorway, and peeked inside the room.
“What’s this about, Fiona? You’re mad that I saw Madeline last night? Is that what this tantrum is?”
“I’m not going to pretend I like it. But, love, you know I can never stay mad at you.”
“I haven’t seen Maddie in years, you know that, and we’re shooting together tomorrow. I wanted to say hi. We hit one club, got a drink, and reminisced. It was no big deal,” Ben said, his voice indifferent.
“Those gossip rags follow her around and I just don’t want your image linked to hers.” Fiona’s voice was a soft whine, vaguely reminiscent of a lap dog in heat.
“Chill. It was low key, Fiona. I was back here, in bed alone, by eleven. I couldn’t sleep worth shit, but I was here.”
“Okay.” Fiona sighed. “If you say it wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t. End of story.”
It sounded like Fiona was jealous that he’d hung out with a woman, and I knew she had issues with estrogen, but that couldn’t be it, could it? Surely Ben was allowed to hang out with whomever he wanted. I couldn’t resist peeking farther around the corner.
They stood in the center of her bedroom in front of the bed. Fiona had changed and was smartly dressed in a fitted black lace top and cream skirt. In contrast, I was frazzled, greasy, and still dressed in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes. Ben, of course, looked like a walking orgasm, wearing dark fitted jeans and a black tee that showed off his muscular physique. His jaw was unshaven and his deep-set gaze was locked on Fiona’s, exuding his dark boyish charm. Good Lord, did that man know how to work it.
Fiona’s back was to me, and I watched as she placed her open palm on his chest and gave it a gentle pat. “I’m over it, love. I’m here now and this season is going to be terrific.”
Ben’s features visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping as if her words held the power to soothe him. Just then, his eyes flicked to mine and he took a step back from Fiona, his expression weary.
“Excuse me, Miss Stone?” I found my voice, knowing I’d been discovered eavesdropping.
Fiona whirled around on her four-inch Prada stilettos. “Oh, Emerson. There you are.” Her voice was laced with sour frustration and held none of the sugary sweetness reserved just for Ben. “Took you long enough. Good thing I had my carry-on.”
She started toward me, seemingly annoyed by my interruption but acting as though being reunited with her precious luggage was the best thing that’d ever happened to her. Ben followed and they both joined me in the living room.
“Ben, this is my new assistant, Emerson Clarke,” she introduced me, waving an absent hand in my direction.
Ben’s large hand reached out for mine.
“Emmy,” I added, placing my palm against his. A jolt of heat at the contact of his skin made me shudder.
Ben stared at me with an unreadable expression. Maybe he’d forgotten me.
“Blueberry Muffin Girl.” He smiled. “Burn all healed up?”
“Oh, it was nothing. I’m fine.” Why couldn’t he have forgotten that disastrous first time we met?
“Where’s my garment bag?” Fiona asked, pulling my attention away from Ben’s deep hazel gaze.
“Your what?”
Hands anchored on her hips, she stood surveying the four large brown monogrammed suitcases with a frown. “I had a hanging bag of gowns. It’s not here.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know about the garment bag, but I can call the airport and arrange for it to be delivered.”
Fiona grabbed the smallest suitcase, heaving it past me so I had to jump out of her path to avoid being knocked over. Ben steadied me as I shuffled closer to him. His warm hand closed around my elbow, sending heat zipping up my arm at the contact.
Whoa
.
Realizing my conversation with Fiona was over, and still standing open-mouthed staring at Ben, I mumbled an apology and fled through the door.
Ben
Fiona had only just arrived and she was already exhausting me. It was going to be a long damn season if she pulled that jealous pouty act every time I talked to a female. Christ. And speaking of females, I hadn’t been expecting to see her sweet little assistant. That was an interesting turn of events. Honestly, I was kind of amazed.
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.