"I can't do sexy photos. I wouldn't have a clue how to pose," I said, but my protest lacked oomph, and I saw from the way Nia's eyes lit up that she knew I'd taken the bait, and all she had to do was reel me in.
"It's just commercial lingerie photos," she shrugged as if to say that was no big deal. "Just pretend you're at the beach in a bikini."
I considered that, then nodded. It's not like I've never displayed a little skin. And I do own a bikini. I even wear it on the beach. In public. Sometimes.
And after everything that happened back then, wasn't there some sort of karmic justice in me stripping down to my underwear for a good cause? I didn't know, but it sounded like a solid justification to me.
"Besides," Nia continued, "a professional photographer's going to have an excellent bedside manner."
"Nia!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Kels. It's a figure of speech."
"Language."
"Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck," she retorted. And I couldn't help myself--I burst out laughing. "Love me, love my potty mouth," she said.
"I do love you," I admitted. "Despite the potty mouth."
"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?