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Luc grins engagingly. “Surprise me.”
She looks less than impressed when she turns back to me.
“What about music?”
Okay, now I’m truly baffled.
“What about it?”
“Do you have a playlist you’d like us to put on while you’re getting ready?”
“Umm, not really? I’m sure anything you’ve got will be fine.”
“Well, aren’t you charming? And so easy to please.” Something about the way she says it makes me think it’s not a compliment.
Luc must agree because he says, “I’m sure she could be more difficult, if you’d like.”
The woman isn’t fazed, though. She just looks at him and says, “Whatever makes her happy. I’m Darla, by the way, and I’ll be around all day, checking on you. If you need something, tell any of the crew and they’ll find me. In the meantime, have a seat and Charlene will be with you in a minute.”
“Charlene?”
“She’s your stylist. She’ll help you pick out some clothes for the cover.” She gestures to the rack of clothing running the length of the back wall on her way out of the room.
For long seconds I just stand in the middle of the room, a little shell-shocked and confused.
“Luc?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“There are no snowboarding clothes on that rack.”
“Yeah. I noticed that.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his body. For a moment I’m so overwhelmed by the closeness of him—by how hot he is and how good he smells—that I forget how absolutely freaked out I am. But then I make the mistake of turning to look at the rack again and all my anxiety comes back threefold.
“Luc. There aren’t even any pants on that rack.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” He clears his throat. “On the plus side, you’ve got great legs.”
I shoot him a look. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“You could say thank you?”
“I could also say fuck you.” I elbow him in the ribs, hard. “I am not going to be on the cover of this magazine in a thong bikini.”
“You don’t have to wear a bikini if you don’t want to.” He walks over to the clothes, pulls out a hanger. “I mean, there are these charming Daisy Dukes you can wear instead.”
“That’s it. I am so out of here.” I turn toward the open doorway, prepared to flee, but I barely make it a couple steps before a woman I can only assume is Charlene breezes through it.
“You must be Cam,” she tells me with a warm smile that is in direct opposition to the bored glare Darla wore during our whole conversation. “I’m Charlene and I have to tell you I am a huge fan. Watching you at last year’s X Games was incredible. You were brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
That she’s a fan matters less at the moment than the fact that she seems eminently reasonable, and I feel myself relaxing just a little.
“Don’t thank me for telling the truth.” If possible her smile gets even wider. “Now, what do you say we pick out some kickass clothes for you before we call Gigi in to do your hair and makeup.”
“Gigi?”
