Brazen Bachelor

After his overconfident actions tonight, I find myself trying to dissect every word, every touch, and every smile. I drive myself crazy until I yawn, realizing it’s almost one in the morning, and the bottle of wine I had chilling in the fridge for a whole week is now empty.

Besides going through old submissions on the "Ask Ida" website, I spent even more time looking up Colton King. Stupidly, I thought about going onto Facebook, which was a rabbit hole I fell down looking at photos of him, his family, and even some of the events he attended in London, Paris, and Rome.

He’s good at his job. Being that gorgeous comes with a lot of perks, but I’m sure it also comes with its fair share of frustrations. One being early mornings, which I noticed him wince at when Blythe told him to be there at five on Monday morning.

When I finally shut my laptop lid thirty minutes later, I sigh, feeling almost sorry for the cocky Brit. He may be a brazen bastard, but he’s still a bachelor at twenty-seven.

Most of the guys I know from school and college are married, running their own small businesses, and already have two-point-five kids. I wonder briefly if his party-going ways are all because he’s lonely.

Shaking my head, I tell myself I’m overthinking it. Tomorrow is Sunday—well, technically, today is Sunday—which means I get to dog sit the golden retriever next door. The highlight of my weekend.

Perhaps that will get my mind off Colton King.

7

Colton

A groan rumbles in my chest when my alarm wakes me at four-thirty. After the busy weekend of meeting new people, smiling, and talking to industry experts, I feel more exhausted than ever before.

What I didn’t expect, though, was to think about Violet all through those meetings. She’s a welcome distraction from this life. Being in the public eye all the time. And even though she may not particularly like me, I’m not giving up. That’s not who I am.

I push off the bed and head into the bathroom to get ready for the day, and twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed in a pair of gray tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. The car is waiting when I reach the lobby, and I slip into the backseat and shut my eyes as the driver pulls away.

I can’t stop picturing her. And each time, it brings a smile to my face when I recall her blowing me off, and not in the way I was hoping. She told me she wasn’t a notch-on-my-bedpost type of girl, but I have to be honest—I didn’t think she would be. At least, I didn’t want her to be.

When we reach the venue for the shoot, I head into the building, up to the floor where they told me to go. I find Blythe with a myriad of photographers. Along to the left are hanging racks for the underwear, which I find very strange, and a long table filled with snacks, fruit, and bottles of chilled water.

“I didn’t think you’d make it this early,” Blythe remarks with a dark brow arched at me.

“You told me to be here, so I’m here. It’s my job, remember?” I remind her and notice the photographer smiling.

“I’m sorry,” she grits out coolly, but then continues to speak, “I’m just shocked that a party boy can even open his eyes before the sun comes up.”

“That’s all right, love.” I smile and turn away, heading toward the golden railing, which has small hangers lined up. There is a collection of trunks, briefs, and tiny shorts that look like they could be women’s underwear rather than men's.

Sighing, I grab the first one and look around for the changing area. Blythe saunters up to me, smiles, then informs me, “You have a room over there,” while pointing to the back of the large hall we’re in.

“Am I alone?”

“There will be a female model coming in about …” She glances at her watch, then looks at me. “Ten minutes?”

“Fine.” I leave her, heading for the room. Once I’m changed, I glance at my reflection in the mirror. They’re a perfect fit, tight, snug, and I actually quite like them.

When I step out of the change room, I find a slender woman who’s dressed in a bikini, getting her makeup done. She glances at me as the stylist pins her long, red hair atop her head and smiles.

“You must be the infamous Brazen Bachelor,” she says as I near her. “I’m Courtney.” She holds out her hand, and I take it. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you too. I’m Colton.”

“I know. Most of New York knows who you are. And after this, the world will most certainly know you.” She looks older than me, but not by much.

“And you’re …?” I allow my words to trail off as I wait for her to give me more information.