“That’s because I’m so damn, fucking lovable.” She flashed a wicked grin before taking another sip of wine while I tried hard not to laugh again. Best not to egg her on.
“Seriously, Kels, it’ll be easy. It’s a lot like dancing. Form and position and movement. In a lot of ways modeling is like choreography. And I’ve seen the outfits you rehearse in. Not a lot left to the imagination, right?”
“That’s different.” When I dance, I dress for comfort and ease of movement. More to the point, I let myself become someone else, someone in tune with the euphoria of the music. Someone willing to let go of control, because the thread of the music is always there to pull me back and keep me safe.
“Quit arguing and just go for it. Trust me, this job will be good for you. You can get your naughty on in a baby step kind of way, and all the while you can tell yourself you’re only doing it because of Griffin. It’s perfect.”
“First of all, I am only doing it for Griffin. I’m not looking for excuses to wear a tiny bikini or flash my breasts. I like me. I like my life. I’m happy. I’m comfortable with who I am.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Oh, give me a break,” I snapped, feeling unreasonably defensive. “I don’t need to hop in bed with a guy on the first date or—”
“First date? Try fifth. Or never. And for that matter, when was the last time you even went on a date?”
“That’s not the point,” I said, because it really wasn’t. “There just aren’t many guys out there that interest me. And why should I go to dinner or drinks with a total dud, much less sleep with him? And you’re getting off the subject,” I added.
She held up her hands. “You’re the one who started talking about dating. My point was only that you should take the job because you need the money—but that you should try to have a good time, too.”
I took a long swallow and finished off my wine. “All I care about is getting enough money to enroll Griffin in the protocol.”
“Sure. Right. You justify it however you want. The point is, this is a rock solid deal. At the very least, you owe it to yourself—and Griffin—to go to the audition.”
I think about that conversation now, as I stand in Wyatt’s studio in the shadow of these sensual, shocking photos. Photos that terrify me, taken by a man who excites me.
I think about it, and I want to run.
But I can’t. Because Nia was right. I have to do this. I have to land this job.
All of which means that I have to ace this audition, Wyatt or no Wyatt. And that will probably go a lot better if I can actually conjure words. Which, considering how many times I’ve imagined bumping into him, is turning out to be surprisingly difficult.
In my head, I’m always clever and amusing during our imaginary encounters in bookstores and restaurants. And when we’re assigned as seatmates on the long journey from Los Angeles to Australia, I’m not the least bit tongue-tied.
Not that I’ve ever actually flown to Australia, but I’ve spent the better part of my life playing out a variety of fantasies in my head. And what’s the point of fantasy if you can’t fix past mistakes? If you can’t be someone a little different than who you are? Especially if there’s no way in hell you’d take the leap in real life?
Over the last twelve years, I’ve spun infinite variations on my Wyatt fantasy. Sometimes we barely speak two words. Sometimes, I’ll let him buy me a drink. Once or twice, I let it go a little bit further. But even in my fantasies, I can’t bring myself to give us a happily ever after.
Because between Wyatt and me, the story is a tragedy, not a romance. Considering everything that happened, how could it be anything else?
Now, Wyatt is nothing more than a pushpin in the map of my life. A reminder of how horrible things can get, and why bad choices are, as advertised, bad.
He’s not a man, he’s a concept. A talisman. Fantasy mixed with memory and topped with a sprinkle of loss.
Unfortunate, maybe, but at least that’s a Wyatt I can handle.
But this Wyatt? The one standing in front of me with golden-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes that can see all the way into our past. The one whose lean body I can still imagine pressed against me, and whose strong arms once made me feel safe. The one with the impudent grin that used to make my heart flutter, but who now isn’t smiling at all.
The boy who once made my breath catch in my throat whenever I caught a glimpse of him. Who’s now a man who walks with confidence and grace and commands a room simply by standing in it.
The boy who made me break all the rules. Who made me lose control.
The man who nearly destroyed me.
That man isn’t manageable at all. On the contrary, that man terrifies me. And right now, I can’t help but think that coming on this audition was a mistake of monumental proportions.
Yup. Definitely going to have to kill Nia. A pity, really. Because when am I going to find the time to go shopping for a new best friend?
More important, how else am I going to earn fifteen grand by the end of the month?
As I stand there like a dolt, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. That’s when I realize that he’s been watching me all this time. Not saying a word. Just waiting. As if this is all on me.
I guess maybe it is.
I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he’s thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.
I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he’s lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn’t, I still thought of him.
And now, like a damn beggar, I’m searching his face for some sign that he’s thought of me, too.
But there’s nothing to see.
Right. Fine. Okay.
I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that’s a mistake because I’m immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They’re raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.
I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. “So,” I say, trying to speak normally. “Usually I’m auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?”
A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. “Kelsey,” he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.
“Yeah.” I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I’ve been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. “It’s me.”
He doesn’t even look at it.