My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as that simple reality settles over me. I bolted.
I didn't just walk away from the chance to earn that money, I sprinted.
Am I really so lame? So fragile that I'll shatter under the chill in his voice or the ice in his eyes?
After all, what did I expect? That we'd both look at each other with wide-eyed surprise and then leap across a daisy-strewn studio into each other's arms while orchestral music played in the background?
That our past would be magically erased, and bluebirds of happiness would ring our heads while tweeting a chipper melody?
Not hardly.
I should have stayed. I should have looked him in the eye, told him I'd come about the job, and steadfastly repeated that the past didn't matter. Over and over and over for as long as it took for him to ignore everything that happened before and simply hire me.
Because I hadn't come to Santa Monica to see Wyatt Segel or W. Royce or whatever name he wanted to go by. I hadn't come because I have some deep hidden desire to strip my clothes off in front of a camera. And I most certainly hadn't come for the fizzle and pop that fills me every time Wyatt is near.
I came solely for the money. For Griffin.
And there is no way I'm letting Wyatt's Arctic glare send me scurrying away.
I need this job, and he needs a model. So I'm doing this. I can, and I will.
With my pep talk still ringing in my ears, I turn and pull open the heavy steel door. It creaks, and as I step over the threshold, Wyatt turns once again to face me.
He's standing like a sentry in front of a wall decorated with dozens and dozens of white-draped photographs. I know what's hidden behind the drapes--images of women just like me, their bare bodies posed provocatively. And for one tiny moment, I breathe easier. Soon, those women will be on display for anyone in the world to see, but until then, Wyatt's covered them. He's protecting them. Guarding their honor.
And surely a man who does that will protect me, too.
I clear my throat and flash a tentative smile. "I shouldn't have run."
Immediately, the guarded expression in his eyes fades, replaced by something that looks almost like hope.
Encouraged, I rush on. "It's just that I really need this job, and you made it so clear you didn't want to see me, and--"
"I see." He'd been walking toward me, but now he stops, his hands sliding into his pockets. His posture stiffens. He's no longer hopeful; if anything, he's hostile.
A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, and I want to kick myself for being such a fool. My apology was for running away twelve minutes ago. But Wyatt obviously thought I was apologizing for what happened twelve years ago.
I expect him to order me out. To tell me firmly and plainly that I have no business being there.
But he says none of that. All he does is look at me so deeply I'm certain he can see all the way to my soul.
I shift under his inspection, feeling raw and naked and exposed. I want to explain. To tell him how confused I was. How much he meant to me. How badly I screwed up. How many people I hurt.
But I can't. The words just don't come. Instead, I can only manage a breathy little gasp before I force out his name, "Wyatt, I--"
"I'm not hiring you, Kelsey. Did you really expect that I would?"
"I--I didn't know it was you," I admit.
"And now you do." He starts to pivot, dismissing me.
"Dammit, Wyatt!"
He stops. His eyes are wide, and I think he's as surprised as I am that a curse escaped my lips. The teenager inside me actually cringes, but my father isn't here. It's only Wyatt, and my outburst has at least snagged his attention.
"You need a model," I say. "I need the work."
"This isn't the job for you, Kelsey. We both know that."