I guess maybe it is.
I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he's thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.
I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he's lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn't, I still thought of him.
And now, like a damn beggar, I'm searching his face for some sign that he's thought of me, too.
But there's nothing to see.
Right. Fine. Okay.
I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that's a mistake because I'm immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They're raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.
I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. "So," I say, trying to speak normally. "Usually I'm auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?"
A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. "Kelsey," he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.
"Yeah." I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I've been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. "It's me."
He doesn't even look at it.
"It's been a long time." His voice is flat. Even.
"It has," I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, he's looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.
I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It's hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt's eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I'm positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.
I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it's good to see me after so much time.
I couldn't be more wrong.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, and it's as if he's tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.
I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. "I--I just . . . well, the job."
I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. "I'm here about the job," I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.
He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, then looks back at me with a frown. "Nia Hancock. Twenty-seven. Mixed race female. Her agent called yesterday and said he was sending her over."
I lick my lips. "She, um, couldn't come. And since I could use the job, I came in her place."
"You came?" he repeats, and I watch as a series of expressions crosses his face, starting with surprise, then moving into confusion, and settling on something that looks remarkably like anger. "You?" His voice takes on a bland tone that is more than a little disconcerting.
I open my mouth to answer, but he continues before I can get a word in edgewise.
"You expect me to believe that Kelsey Draper wants to be a model. One of these models?" he adds, waving a hand behind him to indicate the three uncovered paintings, larger than life in so many ways.
I lick my lips, then immediately regret the unconscious action. Because I'm not sure. I'm really not sure at all.
Then I remember Griffin. And the money. And the fact that I'm desperate.
And, yes, I think about those
scary-but-tantalizing sparks that are zinging around in my bloodstream. I shouldn't want it. In fact, I should hightail it right out that door before everything crashes down on me again.
But I don't. Instead, I glance down at the floor and murmur, "Yes. That's exactly what I want."
He's silent, so I lift my chin, hoping he can see my resolve, but there's nothing warm or welcoming in his expression. On the contrary, what I see on his face is anger. And when he scoffs and says, "What the hell kind of game are you playing this time?" I know that I've made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.