"You'd be right," he says, surprising me.
"So you're punishing me."
His gaze never wavers as he says, "Maybe I am."
My chest tightens, and I immediately regret poking the beast. I'd never expected him to admit it, and now I'm staring straight into a past that I don't want to think about, much less discuss.
I draw a deep breath. "Then you're being an idiot. I need a job. You need a model. You're only hurting your show by turning me away."
His left eyebrow arches up, a trick I used to find bone-meltingly sexy. Now, all I feel is panic. And not just because I need this job and fear that he's going to send me away. No, the real source of my panic is something much deeper. Much more unexpected. And much, much scarier.
It's Wyatt. It's the girls on the wall. And it's this whirlwind of emotion swirling inside me that I don't understand and refuse to examine.
I square my shoulders, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the prize. The job. The paycheck. "Fine. Punish me all you want. Just give me a chance. I can do this."
He drags his fingers through his hair, and he no longer looks angry. Instead he looks wounded. Defeated. And I know that's all on me. Because he put his heart on the line once for me, and I know I ripped it to shreds.
"I can do this," I say again, as if repetition will persuade him. "I just need--"
"Can you? Sweet Kelsey Draper? You practically sank into the floor when you let out a curse a few minutes ago. I don't believe there's any way you can put yourself out there the way I need."
"I can. You just have to believe me."
"I don't."
"Then let me prove it to you."
"How?"
That is a really good question, and one I don't have an answer to. Then I remember a bachelorette party I got dragged to last year. "Do you know X-tasy?"
"The strip club in Van Nuys?" Something like amusement sparks on his face. "It's crossed my radar."
"Tonight. 9 o'clock."
"Why--"
"Just be there. And bring a pen. Because you're going to want me to sign your contract right then."
"Don't hold your breath," he says as he takes a single step toward me, and a pleasant but unwelcome warmth floods my body.
I take a step back in a vain effort to keep my wits about me, but he matches my movement. "I'm under the gun here, Kelsey," he says, leaning in even closer. "I need someone I can depend on."
I force my expression to remain bland. He's right in front of me, and if I take another step back, he'll have me caged in against the wall.
"I'm dependable," I say, but instead of sounding firm and determined, I sound breathy and overwhelmed.
"History would suggest otherwise."
His harsh word lands on me like a punch in the gut, and I fight the urge to cringe. Or, worse, to escape through that door again.
Except I did that already, didn't I? I left. I ran. And I never looked back.
"It's been twelve years," I snap, not sure if I'm more angry with him or with me. "I don't owe you an explanation."
"Fair enough," he replies coolly. "I don't owe you a job."
"No, you don't. But you need a model. And I can do the job. You're an idiot if you don't let me prove that to you."