Oh yeah, the bag. God, Ben talking to me and looking like he was actually concerned was enough to send my brain straight to la-la land. I needed to remember I had a job to do. “Thanks. And yeah, I guess I better go track down that bag.”
He nodded and stepped back. I darted for the elevators on shaky legs. It was just jetlag. It had nothing to do with him. Yeah, right.
Once the precious bag had been located and delivered, I spent the afternoon coordinating details for the next day’s photo shoot. It would take place at a historic Paris hotel, and after confirming that the photographer, makeup artist, lighting techs, and catering would all be there, I then double-checked Fiona’s notes in the Post-it bible for anything I might have missed. I still needed to email the models to give them their call times. But first, I ordered room service. I was starved and I doubted there’d be an invite from Fiona for a nice dinner out, even though it was my first night in Paris. I’d considered trying to navigate the city and treating myself to a classy meal, but dismissed the idea. A hot shower, pajamas, and dinner in bed sounded like a much better way to end the long day I’d had.
After showering, I fell into the fluffy comforter covering the bed and situated my laptop on a pillow on my lap. I double-checked their call times and sent notes to the models for tomorrow. I wasn’t sure why, but the thought of emailing Ben was nerve-racking. My fingers trembled. I considered writing something funny and cute, maybe signing the note Blueberry Muffin Girl . . . but at the last second I chickened out and typed a brief, professionally worded email. No sense flirting with a model; I’d probably just end up looking like an idiot. Surely, hordes of girls threw themselves at him on a daily basis. Though a smiley face couldn’t hurt, could it?
From: Emerson Clarke
Subject: Photo Shoot Tomorrow
Date: May 8, 2013 19:05
To: Ben Shaw
Ben,
Please arrive at 58 rue de Fleurus at 9 a.m. tomorrow. See you then.
Emmy Clarke
Assistant to Fiona Stone, Status Model Management
Someone knocked on the door. Room service! My stomach grumbled loudly. After tipping the bellhop, I settled back into the pillows with my food and typed Ben’s name into my browser. Dinner and a show. What could be more perfect? Google Images was my entertainment for the night. Yes, I was developing a serious fetish for him. Sue me.
My email indicator flashed with a new message, and I silently cursed whoever was interrupting my sick little addiction. I opened my inbox.
Ben Shaw Re: Tomorrow
Tongue!
I laughed silently to myself, finding it cute that he both noticed my smiley face had its tongue sticking out and took the time to respond. I typed out a response.
Me: Always. :)
Oh. My. Gosh. This had to be sleep deprivation talking. Who did I think I was, flirting with a supermodel? But I didn’t have to wait long before my inbox informed me there was a new message.
Ben: Naughty little thing, aren’t you, Miss Clarke? I approve.
I read his reply twice, savoring the fact that he seemed to be flirting back. I didn’t care that I was probably living in an alternate universe. I didn’t want to come back down to earth. Chewing my lip, I hesitated with my fingers over the keyboard.
Did I ignore this message, or respond? That was the million-dollar question. Obviously, ignoring him was out of the question. Hello, nerves.
Me: Glad you approve.
I wished my mind was working properly so I could’ve written something witty and sexy. I hit send and took a bite. Before I could even swallow, he’d replied.
Ben: What are you doing?
I was currently stuffing my face with a delicious sandwich of French bread, butter, and ham, and was pretty sure I had butter smeared on my chin, but I wasn’t about to tell him that I was in bed with a sandwich, wearing my ratty sweatpants with my hair piled up in the world’s messiest bun. Wiping my mouth on a napkin, I swallowed the bite.
Me: In bed. Alone. What about you?
Ben: Alone? That’s no fun.
I giggled to myself. As I pondered what to write back, another message popped up.
Ben: I’m in bed, too. Just got back from dinner with Fiona.
Ugh. Her name was like a bucket of ice water on my rising temperature. Suddenly, my sandwich tasted like cardboard. Finding myself no longer quite so famished, I stood and moved the tray of food across the room, setting it on a table beside the door.
Me: Sounds like fun. Hopefully she’s not still mad about earlier.
A few seconds later, his message flashed in my inbox.
Ben: No, she was fine. That was my fault earlier. She was worried I was going to get sucked into a relationship and have no time for working 24/$7 like I usually do.
I couldn’t resist what I typed next. I was like a giddy high-schooler having an out-of-body experience. Yes, I was baiting him to get some much-needed intel. Evil. Little. Genius, right there. Ellie would be so proud.
Me: No offense, but I thought a lot of male models were g*y.
I couldn’t help but grin.
Ben: Don’t worry. I like pu**y.
Sweet baby Jesus, did he just use that word? He did. He really went there. My jaw dropped open. Suddenly the room felt much too hot and the sheets rubbed against my bare skin annoyingly. I clamped a pillow between my knees and whimpered. Ben had actually just used the p-word.
Me: Good to hear. ;)
He didn’t need to know I was a hot, whimpering mess.
Ben: Is that so?
Me: Umm . . . yes?
I squealed and hid my face in my hands for a minute. This couldn’t be happening.
Ben: It’s f**king delicious.