Working It

3

Emmy

After a relaxing weekend watching Netflix and lounging with Ellie, it was back to the grind Monday morning. Oddly, Fiona seemed like she was in a great mood for once; her smile was sincere as she greeted me.

“Good morning, Emerson.”

“Morning?” I wasn’t sure what to make of her sudden shift in attitude. The number of Post-its on my desk reflected her good mood. There was just one. Book your ticket to CDG.

It took me a second to realize that CDG was the Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. I didn’t wait to be told twice. Using the credit card Fiona had given me for business purposes, I booked an overnight flight out that Friday night. Same as Fiona’s. I wouldn’t have a clue how to navigate Paris if I landed there on my own.

I wasn’t sure when Ben was flying out but I’d overheard that he would be there a few days before us to visit a friend.

That week leading up to our trip was crazy busy. During the day, I organized the many details that were Fiona’s life: coordinating her weekly massage appointments to take place in Paris, ensuring I had a whole caseload of her favorite brand of English Breakfast tea, and arranging the Post-it note bible in alphabetical order, with subsections according to things I thought might pertain to our trip.

My evenings were spent shopping with Ellie and packing everything I owned into two rolling suitcases. It was weird to think I’d be gone for three whole months. Ellie even had someone lined up to sublet my room while I was away. My life was about to be totally turned upside down, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

Pushing the strap of my duffle bag higher on my shoulder, I squeezed through the narrow aisle as I boarded the flight. I spotted Fiona sitting in the third row of first class, glass of champagne in hand, flirting with the businessman beside her. The stewardess leaned over to pass her a warm towel. Of course, I was sitting much farther back in coach, but on the bright side, I was going to Paris! Nothing could’ve dampened my mood right now. Fiona’s mouth pursed when she saw me gawking, but she continued her conversation with Mr. Business Executive in seat 3B.

Ellie’s advice to take Tylenol PM at boarding was sound. I was asleep before lift-off and only woke when we were an hour from landing. Leaving my seat, I freshened up in the tiny airplane lavatory, attempting to fluff my flat, greasy hair and dotting concealer under my tired eyes. But there was no helping the lack of color in my cheeks or the rumpled clothing. I knew I’d have a busy day ahead of me once we landed. Fiona was long gone when I finally made it off the plane. After passing easily through customs, I powered on my phone and waited at the baggage claim. Although I’d arranged for an upgrade to an international plan, I was still surprised when my cell showed a text from Fiona.

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.

Did I ignore this message, or respond? That was the million-dollar question. Obviously, ignoring him was out of the question. Hello, nerves.

Me: Glad you approve.

I wished my mind was working properly so I could’ve written something witty and sexy. I hit send and took a bite. Before I could even swallow, he’d replied.

Ben: What are you doing?

I was currently stuffing my face with a delicious sandwich of French bread, butter, and ham, and was pretty sure I had butter smeared on my chin, but I wasn’t about to tell him that I was in bed with a sandwich, wearing my ratty sweatpants with my hair piled up in the world’s messiest bun. Wiping my mouth on a napkin, I swallowed the bite.

Me: In bed. Alone. What about you?

Ben: Alone? That’s no fun.

I giggled to myself. As I pondered what to write back, another message popped up.

Ben: I’m in bed, too. Just got back from dinner with Fiona.

Ugh. Her name was like a bucket of ice water on my rising temperature. Suddenly, my sandwich tasted like cardboard. Finding myself no longer quite so famished, I stood and moved the tray of food across the room, setting it on a table beside the door.

Me: Sounds like fun. Hopefully she’s not still mad about earlier.

A few seconds later, his message flashed in my inbox.

Ben: No, she was fine. That was my fault earlier. She was worried I was going to get sucked into a relationship and have no time for working 24/$7 like I usually do.

I couldn’t resist what I typed next. I was like a giddy high-schooler having an out-of-body experience. Yes, I was baiting him to get some much-needed intel. Evil. Little. Genius, right there. Ellie would be so proud.

Me: No offense, but I thought a lot of male models were gay.

I couldn’t help but grin.

Ben: Don’t worry. I like pussy.

Sweet baby Jesus, did he just use that word? He did. He really went there. My jaw dropped open. Suddenly the room felt much too hot and the sheets rubbed against my bare skin annoyingly. I clamped a pillow between my knees and whimpered. Ben had actually just used the p-word.

Me: Good to hear. ;)

He didn’t need to know I was a hot, whimpering mess.

Ben: Is that so?

Me: Umm . . . yes?

I squealed and hid my face in my hands for a minute. This couldn’t be happening.

Ben: It’s fucking delicious.

Oh. My. God. This information was not helping my growing crush on him. Not one bit.

Me: I feel the insane need to admit that I’m looking up pics of you online now.

I didn’t know why I told him that, but I liked this brutal honesty thing that was happening between us.

Ben: I need more shirtless pics.

Wait. Were we flirting? I didn’t know how to flirt. Did I? I heard Ellie’s voice inside my head. Step one: Remove his pants. I giggled and quickly typed out a response. I didn’t want him to think I was a total creeper; although to be fair, he did seem to be encouraging it.

Me: No, actually that’s not what I’m looking at. I like your lips and jaw.

Ben: You like them for what?

Me: Good for nibbling.

Ben: Mmm. I like sucking on lips.

My heartbeat drummed in my chest. Ben Shaw could suck on my lips anytime.

Me: :)

My only response was a smiley face, but damn. What did one say to that? There was no textbook, no manual for flirting with a highly unattainable model.

Ben: You like that, Miss Clarke?

Me: Very much, Mr. Shaw.

This wasn’t me. I didn’t engage in dirty talk or flirty banter with models. While they worked out and watched their diets, I ate ice cream in my sweats and slept till noon on Sundays. I pretended to go to the gym, but I really just circled the parking lot looking for a spot. But I liked this new me he was bringing out. I felt confident. Though probably just because I was hidden behind a screen where I could blush and giggle all I wanted.

Ben: Good girl. I’ll see you in the morning.

Me: Yes. You’d better get your beauty sleep for tomorrow. ;)

Ben: Done. ;)

I shut my laptop and rolled over in bed, the ridiculous-ass grin on my face refusing to fade.