of a food peddler.” He smirked.
“I suppose that’s an inherited gene.” I returned his uneasy smile.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I tend to be skeptical about girls wanting to hang around me. You’ll tell me if there’s something you want? Autographed photos for your friends, maybe? Tell me what you want from me, Emmy.”
I blushed irrationally. I knew he couldn’t read my thoughts, or see the dirty video of me and him replaying inside my head. “Well, I don’t have an angle.” I didn’t know how to answer him, and I certainly couldn’t admit my feelings, so I did the only thing I could. I picked up the book sitting on his pillow. “ The Prince , huh? He’s more than just a pretty face. I’m impressed.” My awkward attempt at a topic change was cringe-worthy.
Ben seemed to go with it, however, a smug smile tugging at his mouth. “I can read. Let’s calm down,” he said dryly, plucking the book from my hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but honestly, you have to know models aren’t usually known for their intelligence.” Regret instantly followed my little rant.
Ben’s jaw twitched. “Fair. Annoying. But fair. Nothing’s worse than showing up for a shoot, only to have a photographer speak to me like a small child.”
“They do that?”
“You wouldn’t believe how often. Half of them are just arrogant and rude, and the other half act like they want to get in my pants.”
I giggled. “Asshats.”
“Precisely. Can I top you off?”
My sick little sex-deprived mind thought we were jumping into the dirty talk—until I realized he was opening another minibottle of vodka and was awaiting my response. “Oh, sure. Can I just hit the little girl’s room first?”
“I only have a boy’s room, but it’s all yours.”
I strolled to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. A line of men’s upscale grooming products littered the marble countertop, and a fancy electronic toothbrush sat cradled in its charger. If all that wasn’t enough to tell me that this man was different from the boys back home, the pair of black Armani Exchange boxer briefs that lay discarded on the floor should have. Part of me liked seeing that he was still just a guy—a messy, toilet-seat-left-up-and-everything guy.
I couldn’t explain to him, let alone myself, what I was doing here, other than simply giving in to the pull to be near him. He was gorgeous and funny and made me feel all kinds of alive. Okay, I suppose that was reason enough. I glanced in the mirror as I washed my hands. This man dated supermodels. The girl in the mirror was no supermodel. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could compare with the women he was exposed to. Straight brown hair, big bluish-gray eyes, a funny mouth that often curled into a smile for no reason at all. I was typically described as cute. Not that I’d ever minded that before. But being around models all the time made me wish I was six feet tall with legs up to my armpits and looks best described as exotic. Sadly, that wasn’t in the cards. I finger-combed my loose brown waves. The girl staring back at me was a mess of nerves. What was the real reason that Ben asked me up here? I wondered if Fiona ever felt this insecure. Not likely with her thousand-dollar Louboutins, designer clothes, and the male attention she garnered with a simple smile. I gave up and tucked my unruly locks behind my ears.
Ben was sexy, rich, and probably had girls dropping their panties left and right. Yes, I was sure he got more ass than a toilet seat, yada yada yada. Three girls—as if. Shut up, Emmy . I was smart, hardworking, and a good cook. If that was all I had to offer, it would either be enough or it wouldn’t. I was the girl he’d invited back to his room, dammit.
I lifted the hand towel from the counter and stopped cold. Two bottles of prescription medications were sitting underneath. Three more pill bottles sat on the glass shelf under the vanity.
“I suppose that’s an inherited gene.” I returned his uneasy smile.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I tend to be skeptical about girls wanting to hang around me. You’ll tell me if there’s something you want? Autographed photos for your friends, maybe? Tell me what you want from me, Emmy.”
I blushed irrationally. I knew he couldn’t read my thoughts, or see the dirty video of me and him replaying inside my head. “Well, I don’t have an angle.” I didn’t know how to answer him, and I certainly couldn’t admit my feelings, so I did the only thing I could. I picked up the book sitting on his pillow. “ The Prince , huh? He’s more than just a pretty face. I’m impressed.” My awkward attempt at a topic change was cringe-worthy.
Ben seemed to go with it, however, a smug smile tugging at his mouth. “I can read. Let’s calm down,” he said dryly, plucking the book from my hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but honestly, you have to know models aren’t usually known for their intelligence.” Regret instantly followed my little rant.
Ben’s jaw twitched. “Fair. Annoying. But fair. Nothing’s worse than showing up for a shoot, only to have a photographer speak to me like a small child.”
“They do that?”
“You wouldn’t believe how often. Half of them are just arrogant and rude, and the other half act like they want to get in my pants.”
I giggled. “Asshats.”
“Precisely. Can I top you off?”
My sick little sex-deprived mind thought we were jumping into the dirty talk—until I realized he was opening another minibottle of vodka and was awaiting my response. “Oh, sure. Can I just hit the little girl’s room first?”
“I only have a boy’s room, but it’s all yours.”
I strolled to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. A line of men’s upscale grooming products littered the marble countertop, and a fancy electronic toothbrush sat cradled in its charger. If all that wasn’t enough to tell me that this man was different from the boys back home, the pair of black Armani Exchange boxer briefs that lay discarded on the floor should have. Part of me liked seeing that he was still just a guy—a messy, toilet-seat-left-up-and-everything guy.
I couldn’t explain to him, let alone myself, what I was doing here, other than simply giving in to the pull to be near him. He was gorgeous and funny and made me feel all kinds of alive. Okay, I suppose that was reason enough. I glanced in the mirror as I washed my hands. This man dated supermodels. The girl in the mirror was no supermodel. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could compare with the women he was exposed to. Straight brown hair, big bluish-gray eyes, a funny mouth that often curled into a smile for no reason at all. I was typically described as cute. Not that I’d ever minded that before. But being around models all the time made me wish I was six feet tall with legs up to my armpits and looks best described as exotic. Sadly, that wasn’t in the cards. I finger-combed my loose brown waves. The girl staring back at me was a mess of nerves. What was the real reason that Ben asked me up here? I wondered if Fiona ever felt this insecure. Not likely with her thousand-dollar Louboutins, designer clothes, and the male attention she garnered with a simple smile. I gave up and tucked my unruly locks behind my ears.
Ben was sexy, rich, and probably had girls dropping their panties left and right. Yes, I was sure he got more ass than a toilet seat, yada yada yada. Three girls—as if. Shut up, Emmy . I was smart, hardworking, and a good cook. If that was all I had to offer, it would either be enough or it wouldn’t. I was the girl he’d invited back to his room, dammit.
I lifted the hand towel from the counter and stopped cold. Two bottles of prescription medications were sitting underneath. Three more pill bottles sat on the glass shelf under the vanity.
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