Either way, regardless of who I have to thank for it, Thursday morning dawns with me dressing for a photoshoot with a famous photographer, representing one of the top beauty magazines in the country. On set, I’ll be responsible for providing all the professional makeup artists with the supplies—my supplies, my makeup, on the faces of models I’ve seen featured in all the magazines I grew up dreaming of being featured in. But it’s not lost on me that I’ll be on display too. There’s even going to be a small headshot of me, taken for the back details of the magazine, where I’ll be featured in a New Creators to Watch section.
I realize they’ll probably redo everything I do the minute I get to set, but I spend hours getting ready anyway, primping and styling myself to perfection before I finally set out.
Lark meets me in the parking lot of the studio, also dressed to the nines. The sight of him in a formal suit and tie takes my breath away the second I step out of my car. It takes all my self-control not to stride across the lot and fling myself into his arms right here.
Instead, I dive into my trunk to avoid him, then reemerge with my arms full of bags. Bags of all the makeup I put together for this event.
Lark holds out a hand, offering to take one, but I shy away from him. “I can handle carrying a few palettes,” I inform him, chin raised.
“Never said you couldn’t.” He tucks his hands into his suit pockets and falls into step beside me. “So. Busy week, hmm? You haven’t had a minute to spare for me.”
“And why should I?” I reply, my tone light, my face turned slightly away so that I don’t have to watch his expression when those words register. “It’s not like we owe one another anything.”
This time, I can’t help myself. I peek over, and my heart catches at the hurt expression on his face. “Cassidy…” But whatever he’s about to say is drowned out when the studio manager opens a door up ahead and catches sight of me.
“You must be Ms. Marks!” He drifts down the stairs, dazzling in a pinstripe suit and eyeshadow I’d kill to have designed myself. “Marcel. It’s such a thrill to meet you—Lark has been gushing about your talent ever since our last dinner, and I knew I had to invite you to set.” He kisses both of my cheeks, then wraps Lark in a tight hug.
Over his shoulder, Lark flashes me a pained smile.
All Sheryl’s doing, my ass. Still, I keep my own smile painted on, as Marcel practically drags me into the studio, chatting excitedly the whole way about how much Lark gushed about my products and how excited he is to use them on set today.
I’m starting to wonder if Lark has taken a special interest in my products just because of me, or if he’s always the one to run things in this company. I’m not sure which answer I’d prefer. I hope he’s not just pretending to love my products because he wants me to keep sleeping with him.
But somehow I doubt that. I watched him go over my palette that first time, and there was genuine admiration on his face. Plus, Lark doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who lies about what he feels. Even if it would be more convenient to do that.
For example, today. As Marcel leads me around set, introducing me to the different makeup artists and standing by as I explain my color ideas to them—each of the artists seems nicer than the last, and more encouraging of my work. But the whole time, every time I glance over, I find Lark watching me intently, his gaze laser focused.
And any time we move to the next counter to talk to another artist, his hand brushes my thigh, my waist, the edge of my bicep. He’s constantly finding excuses to touch me lightly, teasing, the small smile on his face whenever he does, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Every time, I force myself to turn away. To stay focused. To continue with my pitches as though Lark isn’t standing just a foot or two away, those bright eyes of his boring into mine, the scent of his cologne mingled with his aftershave trailing after me like a memory I can’t shake. The memory of him spread-eagling me across my bed and bending down to kiss his way between my thighs, his tongue leaving a searing hot trail in its wake, until he reached home, lapping at my pussy like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
Oh, God. I force the image from my head.
By the time I finish handing out all my supplies and presenting to everyone on set, it’s time for the models to arrive. Finally, I get a bit of a breather, although—“You absolutely have to stay to watch!” Marcel gushes. “This is the most exciting part, getting to see your work used firsthand.” He drags a chair for me and another for Lark over to the edge of the stage, from which we have a view of all the different stations where models have been seated to have their makeup done, and in the other direction, the camera backdrop where they’ll be getting their photos taken.