Her eyes widened, the surprise unmistakable. Her hands pressed to her cheeks as she searched my face. And searched and searched. Finally, after the longest pause of my life, she said, “Oh. Okay. Well.” She nodded, no smile, and gave me a little wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I turned and walked away, doom spiraling, not sure if she was impressed or repulsed. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d almost taken me back to her apartment—and, not gonna lie—what we might’ve done there.
So when I got to the lobby, I walked straight past the elevators and opted for the stairs instead. All twenty-four flights. And when I got to my room, I did one hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, and took one very long, very cold shower.
Chapter Three
GRIFFIN
Itossed and turned all night, making myself sick over what Juliette must think of me. Probably that I was some kind of joke. I actually said a prayer, asking God to wipe me from her mind. Just let her forget I existed, and I’d pretend we’d never met.
Thank heavens he didn’t grant it.
All morning, as we practiced our runway walk, Juliette stayed quiet. Focused. Apparently, when she worked, she locked in. I could appreciate that. Maybe it was for the best.
The less I got to know her, the easier it would be to get over her. Yes, over. So what if I’d only met her twelve hours ago? I was almost positive I’d had a love at first sight moment.
Falling in love with a supermodel? Might’ve just been at the top of the list of idiotic things I’d done. But that was the thing about love at first sight. You don’t get to choose. Your heart just does it. And mine had chosen her.
So. Yeah. Keeping her distance now was just a trial run for the emotional crash that was coming when I left Phoenix today.
I swear, from my lips to Satan’s ears…
Minutes before we had to walk the runway, someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Griffin,” Juliette said, panicked.
Even though I’d been with her off and on all morning, I still braced for the hit I was about to take by just looking at her. As expected, adrenaline buzzed through my stomach and down my legs. The air froze in my lungs. In her runway dress, she was… breathtaking. Albeit, her neck was craned at a funny angle.
“Can you help? My hair’s stuck in the hook,” she said, cheeks flushed.
“Oh, dang.” I chuckled. “You bet.”
From this angle, I couldn’t imagine there was anything to hook. The front of her sleeveless, see-through mini slip dress had an overlay of white fringe that barely covered her lady parts. It was more angelic swimsuit cover-up than actual dress, and I fought the internal pull to wrap my arms around her and hide her from everyone’s view.
“Thanks.” She turned to reveal an open zipper that ran from mid-butt—heaven help me—to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She swept her remaining hair over one shoulder, offering me an uninterrupted view of her entire back. And what a back it was. I shouldn’t have been surprised. You don’t become the face of the brand unless you’re a twenty-five out of ten.
“Ah,” I said, spotting the problem. “You’ve got about ten strands of hair that are now part of that hook. You okay if I cut them?”
“Sure. But don’t get scissor-happy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I jogged off for a pair of sewing scissors and came right back. With one careful snip, she was free.
“Since you’re already back there…” She glanced over her shoulder and gave me a sheepish smile. “Would you mind zipping me up? It’ll save me from dislocating a shoulder.”
“Uh, sure.” I tried to keep my eyes up top, but I had toglance down long enough to find the zipper. And yes, I caught sight of the two small dimples at the bottom of her spine and the gentle curve of her hips. My heart kicked against my ribs, and my mutinous brain begged me to complete the task as slowly as humanly possible.
But if anybody knew playing with fire would get you burned, it was me. My fingers trembled as I yanked the zipper up in one swift motion. Then, with every ounce of discipline I possessed, I forced myself to step back.
“All done,” I said. “You should be good to go.”
She turned to face me, hair cascading over her shoulders, neck straightened out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I don’t know about the dresses.” Her gaze stayed anchored on my Adam’s apple like she was too nervous to look me in the eye. “But I think Declan’s going to get rich off his suits.” She reached up and straightened my tie the same way my mom did for my dad. It sent a bolt of lightning through my gut. She brushed a piece of lint off my lapel. “After everyone sees you today, they’ll be ordering like mad. And you’ll get all the gigs. Look out, GQ.” She started to step away.
I don’t know how it happened—maybe I’d been possessed by a much more confident man—but I caught her by the elbow and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I think the dresses are going to do very well too.”
Her breath hitched, and when I stepped back, her cheeks were dusted with a pink that wasn’t there a moment ago. Had I just made Juliette Serrant blush?
