Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters 2)

My body is already slowly eating itself. It’s the main reason why I want to quit modeling. My health has been tanking from the sleep stuff—add this and I know I may do some damage.

I chew on the gritty bar that tastes more like tree bark than peanut butter and almonds. Christina is finished before me since she has less hair to braid. I’m going to be here for another two hours, I swear. At least the makeup artist has joined the other girl in the braiding. I tried to do a strand by my face, but the stylist slapped my hand away.

The chair fills quickly beside me. A male model slouches down, holding a whole bowl of fruit. He notices the granola bar in my hand. “Where’d you get that?” he asks enviously.

“The tree people,” I tell him, taking another bite and passing him the granola. “What’s wrong with the fruit?”

He bites the bar and sinks back in his chair like he’s in food heaven. It makes me smile, one of the first times I’ve done so since arriving in Paris.

“Carbs,” he says, answering my question. “Craft service only has fruit and raw vegetables.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “They told us we can eat whatever we want, but either all the waifs scarfed down the crackers and sandwiches or someone tricked me.”

“They don’t want anyone to overeat,” I say. “Some years the selection is better.”

“Last year,” he says with a nod. “Last year was better. They had muffins.”

I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”

“Blueberry and banana nut.”

“You are a cruel, cruel person…” I trail off and get a good look at him, realizing I’ve never met this model before.

“Ian,” he says, taking another bite of my bar. He has muscles, not a “waif” as he called the naturally skinny guys. His face is classically beautiful like a Greek statue. I’ve seen him in a cologne ad, I think. He holds out the granola to me.

“You finish it,” I say.

“I’ll trade you.” He raises the fruit. “It’s no muffin, but…” He smiles. And of course, it’s gorgeous, full white teeth, bright and welcoming.

I like this guy. He speaks my food language. “I’ll take it.” We swap. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“I know. I think I sat on your face at a bus stop today.”

I mock gasp. “You sat on my face? Impossible. I don’t let strangers do that.”

He laughs. A stylist sprays blue dye in his hair. Fashion designers are crazy. I should know, Rose is one. Though she didn’t get invited here. She’s still back in Philly.

“So,” he says, “I’m six-two, blue eyes, brown hair, twenty-five…” He tilts his head towards me as his stylist pauses to reach for hair spray. “I can list off my measurements, but something tells me you won’t care about the size of my chest.” This reminds me of a similar conversation that I had with Ryke once upon a time. He was trying to convince me to eat cake.

“Your hips also don’t have to be measured in the morning,” I told him.

“They can be,” Ryke said. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my hips?”

“And your ass.”

“You want to know the size of my ass?” His brows rose.

“Yep.”

“Eat the cake.”

I smile more out of remembrance from that moment than out of attraction towards Ian.

I shake my head at Ian. “Only your ass.”

He grins. “I only give that to girls I really like.”

“Damn,” I say. A pit sinks to my stomach. We’re flirting. I don’t want to taint that memory I had with Ryke by continuing this banter with Ian. It’s starting to make me a little nauseous. Maybe that’s the fruit or the one bite of tree bark. But this could be a good thing. He could be my number seven. This is what Ryke wanted, right? Stop hanging onto what could be, Daisy. Let Ryke and the past go.

Ian wears an easygoing smile as he checks me out. “You want to meet up later?” he asks.

Maybe commenting on his ass was a bigger signal than I thought. Ryke never acted on the flirty nature of our conversations. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like him. Most guys will prod further, not stop at a point. They want the sex. All of it. Not just the dirty talk. Maybe this is a good thing. It doesn’t feel that way.

But I think about going back to my room late tonight after runways. The balcony doors don’t have deadbolts, so it’d be really easy for someone to punch through the glass and just unlock the door from the inside. I couldn’t sleep the first night because I kept glancing at that door. Maybe having Ian around will help me calm down…and maybe sex will help me sleep without Ambien. I haven’t tried it before, but I also never wanted to medicate with sex.

I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.

These new possibilities sound better than my current situation. So I give Ian my cell number. I also didn’t want anyone to know my hotel room, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to just tell Ian.

I feel like there’s no perfect choice here. There are a lot of negatives, a few positives, and so I just have to pick.

“Know where I can find these tree people?” he asks, waving an empty granola wrapper.

I smile. He’s not too bad.

I think I just made my decision.

DAISY CALLOWAY

By the time I enter my room, the clock strikes 2 a.m., and I only have enough time to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before Ian knocks on the door.

I peek through the peephole, ensuring that it’s just him. I can smell his strong cologne through the door, but he looks casual, wearing jeans and a blue tee. I keep staring, hesitating for so many reasons. He knocks again. I flinch at the violent noise. You can do this.

I turn the knob, and when Ian appraises my jean shorts and baggy sweater, he smiles. “Nice,” he says, motioning to the words across my chest: Bulimia’s so ’87.

He even understands a Heathers reference. Maybe he is perfect for me. “Welcome to my abode.” I wave him inside. I haven’t unpacked, so I had no time to be messy. My rolling suitcase rests by the television hutch, all zipped up. The hotel room has gold walls and red bedspreads, looking cleaner and more harmonious with the colors than any part of my apartment in Philly.

“Nice room too,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

He heads deeper inside, going to the balcony door that I’ve spent a great deal of time locking and shrouding with the gold curtains. He pulls them back, and my pulse speeds. I hear the click of the single lock, and then he slides open the glass door, stepping outside to see the view of the city.

“Holy shit,” he says, his voice louder so I can hear. “My room overlooks a parking garage. This is…”

I tune him out as I shut the front door, using every lock to ensure my safety and his. I even look through the peephole one extra time. The hallway is empty. Good.

And then I walk to the bed, waiting for him to come back inside. I don’t want to attract any paparazzi, if they’re here. On the chance that they spot me from the balcony, they’ll count the floor I’m on and figure out which room I’m in.

“Yeah, the view is really pretty,” I say.

Ian slips back inside, but he leaves the sliding door all the way open.

“Can you close it?” I ask, trying not to seem paranoid. I give him a small smile. “It’s kinda cold tonight.”

“Sure.” He shuts the door and then closes the curtains back. No lock. But I’ll just have to do that after he leaves. What if he doesn’t leave? What if you have sex with him? Then I’ll lock it when he falls asleep. No worries.

I sit on the foot of the bed and cross my legs, wondering where his head is at, what he wants to do right now. He eyes me a little more hungrily than before. His gaze travels across my legs, stopping at the place between my thighs.

He stuffs his hand into his pocket. Condom, I think. But he pulls out a baggy of white powder. “I thought you looked tired this morning. Want a boost?” He heads over to m

y dresser and begins to separate the powder into two lines.

“No,” I say. “I’ve been chugging Lightning Bolts! and taking Ripped Fuel. I don’t think coke will mix well with them.”

I uncross my legs and then stand up, pacing anxiously before I reach his side.