Page 3 of Tell Me Something

“But—but I’m not a model,” I squeaked. The hair stylist was behind me, letting my locks down from my clip.

“No kidding, chica. Bart, what am I to do with this one? She’s shorter and about twenty pounds overweight.” Ramone, the clothing designer, was about to have a fit of his own.

Sucking in my breath, I let my temper get the best of me. “She has a name, and you can talk to me directly instead of pretending I’m not in the room. And I don’t appreciate having my size six called fat.”

I swore I saw a ghost of a smile from Josh as he witnessed the exchange from the doorway. Thankfully, Warren was now on the phone out of earshot.

“Honey, by industry standards anything above a two is fat.” Ramone was tsking over my frame as Josh stepped in and met my eyes in the mirror.

“What’s your name?”

“Haylee Holloway.”

Nodding, he looked toward the designer. “We use Haylee here, or the whole shoot is a wash. You’re a genius, Ramone. Make it work.”

That seemed to pacify my moody fashion designer as he went over to the clothing rack and started taking inventory.

Over the next ten minutes, my hair was blown out within an inch of its life. As the stylist was flat-ironing it, I watched Warren cross over and talk to both Josh and Bart in front of the doorway.

“Look gentlemen, she’s a real pretty girl. I’ll give you that, but she isn’t a model. She has no training and isn’t the image we were hoping to go with. I’m on the phone trying to get a model agency to send another girl. I’m sure we can get someone here in the next hour or so.”

I tried not to take offense at Warren’s words. It wasn’t like he was wrong. I could confidently say I was attractive, based on some male attention I’d received in my twenty-two years. But I’d never been considered exceptionally beautiful and would never have been labeled model material.

Bart shrugged. “Your call, Josh, but I think she’s more photogenic than the stick.”

I felt Josh give me a once-over from head to toe, and I blushed at the scrutiny. He’d once been married to a Brazilian supermodel, and here I was a girl right out of college from Northern California who’d led a sheltered life thus far and who definitely wasn’t a stick figure.

“All right, I trust you know what you’re doing, Bart. If anyone can turn nothing into something, it’s you.”

Well, that was quite the confidence builder. If I’d needed a reminder as to why Josh Singer was out of my league, that sealed it.

I STARED at my image in the mirror when Trisha turned me around. Somehow they had transformed my wavy, shoulder-length brown locks into silky straight perfection that I didn’t dare run a hand through—though I was sorely tempted. My ordinary blue eyes stood out like big pools, with the long lashes and coal-black liner they’d used. I never would’ve thought I could look like a model, not even for a day, and had to appreciate the effort as I smiled at Trisha and the hair stylist.

“You guys are amazing. I look so different.”

Cringing as Ramone loudly requested a better padded bra, I then proceeded to get dressed with the help of Trisha and another woman.

I never imagined how much touching models endured. It was a little overwhelming, to say the least, when one of the women reached up no-nonsense to arrange my thong in order to avoid panty lines. Finally, they slid my feet into platform heels, and I looked down at the little black cocktail dress and took a deep breath. Well, no turning back now.

“Let’s go,” Bart yelled.

Stepping into the bar, I glanced at the bottles of rum strategically placed behind the counter. I felt like a fish out of water as I nervously adjusted my dress, standing there waiting for them to tell me where to sit.

Bart put down his camera, took both of my hands, and looked into my eyes. He obviously realized I was shaking like a leaf. “Relax and take a deep breath, Haylee. Have a seat on the bar stool and turn your body toward me.” After this direction, he stepped back to gauge my angle.

I did what was asked simply because I wasn’t sure if I was going to pass out or start crying. Neither was a respectable option at the moment.

I must’ve appeared as awkward as I felt, because as he was about to grab my leg, he paused suddenly. “This is something you’ll have to get used to; I’m going to be moving you. Are you okay with that?”

Surprised he would caution me, I was also thankful. Obviously, he knew I was completely new to this entire process. I could only nod again, after which he adjusted my leg, flipped my hair off my shoulder, and turned my body, draping my dress to flatter the shot.

“There. Now I want you to go to whatever place you need to in order to conjure up the emotions I call out.” He backed off and went behind the camera to click and wind things.

I was sure I appeared like a deer caught in headlights and could only blink at the noise and flash as Bart snapped a picture.

He spoke in low, concise tones. “I want aloof, dear. You’re waiting on someone and can’t be bothered to make eye contact with any other man in the bar. You know you look good, and there isn’t a thing you want to do to attract their attention.”

I stayed frozen, trying to register what he was saying, and then closed my eyes. Opening them at the sound of footsteps coming toward me, I was stunned to see it was Josh Singer instead of Bart this time.