Losing this weight has been about proving to myself that I could do it. It’s about getting healthy. It’s about not being fucking winded when I run up all the stairs to Evian Sprague’s favorite cafe in Beverly Park…just in time to swipe her latest talent right out from under her awful, smug little nose.
“Better gigs,” I announce, slamming my own contract down on the table so hard, the little foam hearts in Evian’s soy latte tremble. “More visibility—access to indie designers on top of all the big names—and Wild Rose can guarantee that you’ll be walking New York, Milan, and Paris fashion weeks by this time next year.”
“Holy fuck, dude,” the model says, lifting his pen from Evian’s contract and immediately shifting it to mine. He smiles up at me with one green eye, one blue, and even I have to admit that it’s pretty fucking cool—even if he’s a little too pretty to be my type. “You’re serious?”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s serious.” Evian Sprague slides her rose-colored sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and glares at me over them while smoke billows around her from her clove-scented cigarette. “A serious cunt. Run along, Kara Gilmore. The whale show at SeaWorld starts any minute now—it would be so sad to disappoint all of those eager tourists, don’t you think?”
“Man, whatever,” the model says, scrawling his name onto my contract instead.
I get the pleasure of watching the sneer on Evian’s thin, over-lined lips as she pays her check and saunters away. I’m sure she’s got a long day of organizing asshole bleachings and drinking the souls of the innocent with her diet soda ahead of her. I’m happy to see her go.
“So, uh…” the male model says, staring up at me with those mesmerizing blue-green eyes. “What’s the policy on inter-company relationships? Want to bang one out in the bathroom to celebrate?”
He smiles all cocky and shit, like I’m already some kind of sure thing.
“Aw,” I coo. “Look at you. Bet women don’t turn down that grin very often.”
“They don’t,” he flirts. His voice is all breathy and heavy with lust already. “Especially not when it’s coming from between their legs.”
I consider it for a second. Don’t judge me, babe! You would, too.
Like, okay. He’s undeniably hot. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t be signing him.
But real talk for a second? I don’t fuck my clients. Plus, he’s got that slender beach-boy surfer thing going on—not my type.
“You’re going to hear the word no a lot in this industry,” I tell him, reaching for the contract. “Might as well start getting used to it now.”
He catches my wrist as my fingers curl around the document.
“I could tear this up and sign with that Evian bitch, you know,” he says. I can see the bead of sweat dripping down from his perfect hairline—this dude is flustered right now. “I think I might like a little more one-on-one time with you written into my contract.”
I snort and yank my wrist away from him with one sharp tug.
“You want to try it? Be my guest. If you like the idea of fucking your agent so much…”
We both watch as, in the distance, Evian smacks a camera-wielding tourist with her handbag. Poor fucker probably mistook her for Cruella de Vil.
“Tapping that rusty old snatch will be a mandatory part of your package if you want her offer back,” I assure him.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat.
A second bead of sweat dribbles down his brow.
“I think Wild Rose might be the place for me,” he admits.
?
?Thought so,” I say, already clicking my kitten heels away…grinning with the satisfaction of a job well fucking done.
Chapter 3
Chase
Look, I’m not gonna fuck around about this. There’s no fucking point in being modest when my rippling biceps and rock-hard six-pack are anything but. I’m the toughest bastard in this gym, and any asshole who says otherwise is going home with a broken face.
And a broken face is exactly what the dude watching me bench press ends up with.
Yeah, I see that fucker gawking at me while I lift three times his body weight over my body, as if the bar was hung with fluffy pillows instead of solid fucking steel. I see his cock get hard beneath his gym shorts at the sight of sweat pouring down my pectorals—which, I’m flattered, but that’s not my thing.