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CHAPTERSEVEN
Faye
I sit at the desk, trying to focus on the second batch of photos, but all I can think about is what I stupidly said in Felix’s office.
I look to see if he’s watching me, but he’s no longer standing at the window.
He was before, and I kept looking down, pretending I didn’t notice. There was something so captivating about him standing there, his casual shirt open three buttons from the top, showing his firm chest, his clean-shaven jaw making him look younger than his thirty-nine years.
And then, mostly because I freaking panicked and wanted to help, I offered to do the unthinkable.
Find models for him to photograph.
The thought makes it difficult to focus on the task in front of me. My mind keeps flitting to the future, when I’ll recede into the background, watching with pain rioting through me as he snaps photos of women way prettier than me.
That’s not just bull crap, low self-esteem talking.
It’s a fact.
Anybody I find on a freaking model page is going to be prettier than me.
So what, right? He doesn’t want me anyway.
Why does it matter?
It doesn’t.
That’s what I try to tell myself as I sort through the photos, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’ll be betraying me.
That’s craziness. I know that.
But it doesn’t make the feeling go away.
Is he going to take photos of other women before me?
Well, yeah, he is.
I’m nobody to him. A maybe-employee if I play this right. His daughter’s friend.
Nothing else.
He’d laugh – more in confusion than meanness. I bet – if he knew about all the thoughts rushing through me.
If he knew about my crush, maybe the laugh would turn a little mean, or belittling, even if he didn’t mean it to.
“Oh, right,” I imagine him saying, a smirk playing on his lips. “That’s nice of you, Faye, but I’m not really into dorks half my age.”
I swallow bitterly, as though these words aren’t mind-made, as though he actually said them.
A photo trembles in my hand as I carefully place it in the no folder. We could’ve done this digitally, but I remember Lola saying he much prefers working with physical copies when he can.
At least he has copies. These aren’t the final prints.
I’m sweating, leaving fingerprints, but I can’t help it.
It’s not the office, converted from a warehouse, with a sea breeze kissing the back of my neck.
It’s thinking about what will happen with the models when I’m watching.
