“I’m so glad you’re here! Mac’s been looking for you!”
“Mac?” I ask, trying to remember the emails Mitch sent me. Did they mention a Mac?
“Mac Davis.” She looks at me expectantly but I have no idea who that is. A quick glance at Luc tells me he’s as clueless as I am, so I just smile at her and hope for the best.
“The photographer?” She’s speaking slowly now, like I’m an idiot. “He shoots a lot of the Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone covers. Plus the SI swimsuit issue.”
“Oh, wow. That’s—great?”
“It’s better than great.” She ushers us through the huge foyer and down the hall. “We’ve been after him to shoot a cover for us for ages, but he was never interested. At least not until we told him we wanted you for a cover. Then he couldn’t say yes fast enough.” She winks at me. “You should be flattered.”
I nod, smiling weakly because I don’t know what else to do.
“Now,” she continues, as she leads me into a room with two couches, a bunch of standing mirrors, and a few comfortable-looking chairs. There’s a huge rack of clothes lining one wall, and a spinny chair next to one of the mirrors in the corner, like the kind you find at salons.
I guess Luc is wrong about them changing up locations for each shoot. Z and Ash may have filmed other places, but that must be because of who they are. This place definitely looks like it’s home base for a bunch of shoots.
“Can I get you some coffee or tea? I can send someone to Starbucks to get whatever you want.” She looks at Luc. “And you too, of course.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I don’t want to bother anyone.”
“It’s not a bother.” She gives me another strange look. “It’s our job to make you comfortable.”
I nearly laugh. Yeah, like that’s going to be possible. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so uncomfortable in my life.
“Actually, I think we’re good with water, if you’ve got it.”
“Of course. Bottled, filtered, sparkling, or flavored? I believe we have lemon, lime, and orange.”
“Umm, filtered, I guess? Or bottled. Whatever’s easiest.”
I look at Luc for confirmation. He just nods. The woman pulls her phone out of a pocket and texts our order to someone.
“And for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Where would you like us to order your lunch from? We can get you anything you want.”
“Oh.” I’m getting frazzled now, though I try not to show it. I guess I thought I’d show up, they’d do my hair and makeup, take a few pictures and I’d be on my way. But lunch makes it sound like we’re going to be here for a while. Which is fine, but now I’m so nervous I can’t imagine actually being able to eat anything.
Luc must sense my unease because he steps in with a hand on my back and a killer smile for the woman. “You want a burrito?” he asks me. “Or a burger?”
The woman looks scandalized at his choice of food. I guess she doesn’t know just how many calories I expend on a dail
y basis—even when I’m not boarding, I’m training pretty hard, lifting serious weight and doing a lot of cardio. Still, I figure there’s no reason to send her into a tizzy, so I say, “A salad would be good. With chicken, if possible. And maybe some fruit?”
It’s Luc’s turn to give me a strange look. But the woman seems happy, so I just send him a subtle shrug. Besides, it’s not like I’m working out today anyway.
“And for you?” she turns to Luc.
“I’m good with a burger and fries.”
“Beef, turkey, or veggie?”
“Definitely beef.”
“Sweet potato or regular fries?”