She never wanted to be a ballerina anyway.
I reached the door to leave but paused when I saw a small card lying in the dust-free square where the music box had sat. It was the business card the model agent slipped me on the street years ago. I’d hidden it after my papa refused to allow modeling of any kind and then forgot about it.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
Modeling was supposed to be a hard industry to get into. Although, I’d either gotten very narcissistic or divine intervention had stepped in. Because here I was now, modeling a campaign for a vegan product. I only went to go-sees and accepted contracts from humanitarian-conscious companies and designers—which my agent hated—but apparently, this new spark in my eyes worked out great for me.
Months ago, I believed I would be engaged to Carter—or even married at this point existing as a jaded housewife. I wasn’t sure how Carter got the memo none of that would be happening, but when I ran into him last week picking up some takeout, he’d dropped his tacos as if the sight of me gave him a heart attack and immediately took off in the other direction.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting . . . but it would do.
No Carter. No working in the sex industry. And no living on pennies. All of those fears had evaporated, but I was still consumed with doubt of another kind.
I closed my eyes as one of the makeup artists applied mascara to my lashes.
“Good god, no!” Flora exclaimed. “Were you not briefed today?”
The artist frowned. “Yes. We’re going with clean looks.”
Flora’s brow rose above her sixties-style round glasses. “What about black mascara on a blonde says ‘clean’ to you? It says ‘slutty club girl’ to me. She already has a slutty vibe. We don’t need to exaggerate it.”
Slutty vibe?
Flora waved a hand at my face. “Fix it. Just fix it before Carlos shows up.” Then she flounced off to harass someone else.
Twenty minutes later, I wore an athletic one-piece swimsuit and stood on a terrace giving a perfect view of the ocean.
Click . . . Click . . . Grumble.
“We need sexy,” Carlos snapped. “Not ‘I’m saving myself for marriage.’”
Okay . . . I was “slutty” a moment ago. Not to mention, it was hard to feel sexy with a milk mustache, holding a pint of almond milk.
Click.
“No, no, no.” Carlos rubbed his temples. “Please tell me you’ve had sex before.”
Sometimes, I questioned this career, but overall, I loved promoting my vegan lifestyle and that the substantial income gave me the means to truly make a difference somewhere.
“Yes, I’ve had sex.” A few times . . .
“Good sex?”
“Yes.” Heat rushed up to my neck because I knew where he was going with this, and I really didn’t want to go there. “But can I ask a question?”
“No.”
I asked anyway. “Why does an almond milk advertisement need to be sexy?”
He sighed irritably. “Sex sells, darling.”
“I’m just thinking of the kids here . . . Wouldn’t they want to send their parents off to buy this milk if I looked happy drinking it instead of, well . . . horny?”
Carlos gave me a dry look. “You are lucky you have the perfect look for this
shoot. Or I’d toss you off this terrace so fast.”
I sighed.