“Well, yes, but—”
“Cool. I’m sending you some. Love you.” I hang up. “Yuna, can you arrange for a flower delivery for Chantel Winters? Her info is in the phone. Let’s make it…a hundred red roses.”
That will ensure she won’t call me later, ostensibly about the missing roses, but really intending to continue the pointless discussion about Ella. Chantel wants me to get along with her daughter. She seems to think it’s something she can talk me into, and my time’s too valuable to waste like that.
“Got it,” Yuna says. Then she pulls a shirt out of one of the boxes, comes over and puts it in front of me. “Hmm. I’m not sure why she included this one.”
“Why do you say that?” I’d look at the shirt, but I’m too distracted by the cute way Yuna’s frowning and pursing her lips.
“The color’s weird. This shade is too watered down… It looks a little dingy, like somebody spilled spoiled cream over a poorly pigmented green. It just isn’t your color.”
I glance down and see what Yuna means. The color is a little weird. Surprising, because Jill’s usually better than this, but everyone has an off day once in a while. Or maybe she saw something in the shade that none of us are seeing.
Yuna continues, “I’m trying to decide what she must’ve been thinking. I assume the people who work for you are good at their jobs, right?” She frowns. “Maybe it’ll look better once it’s actually on…”
“Well, one way to find out,” I say.
Yuna looks at me and then all but slaps her forehead. “Oh, right! I should text her.”
“No, no, no. I meant this.”
I take off my shirt. But I don’t just pull it over my head like some out-of-shape schmo. I use every bit of technique I’ve picked up from my modeling career to ensure I show everything off as sexily as possible. The abs stay super tight. The torso twists just enough to lock in the obliques. When I pull the shirt over my head, the fabric skims my hair and leaves it perfectly tousled, as though from a light Pacific breeze. I slow everything down a little so Yuna has enough time to appreciate what she’s seeing. And when I finally bring my arms back down in front of me, I flex my pecs and lats so as to set the shoulders and provide max contrast between how wide they are and the narrowness of my waist.
When I look at Yuna’s face again—my eyes properly set into a scorching I want you laser-gaze—her mouth is slightly parted. The long pianist fingers curl around the shirt.
Ohhh yeah. Pride swells in my chest. I work hard to maintain this body, and I love it that Yuna can’t tear her eyes away.
I gently take the shirt from her and put it on, again giving her a display. Her gaze caresses me like a lover’s touch. I start getting a little hot myself, which is new. Some women go gaga over my body and begin talking a blue streak. But Yuna’s dazed silence is hella hot. It’s all I can do not to kiss her.
“So…” I say, “What do you think?”
Two heartbeats pass before she clears her throat, her cheeks flushed. “Um. Yeah. Amazing.”
“So it looks better on?”
“No, I meant…your body.”
Oh, you noticed? “Yes…?” Let’s hear some adjectives.
“You know what I mean,” she says, a small smile on her lips as the adorable flush in her cheeks deepens. “But that color’s still bad. It makes you look kind of…sickly. Probably because your skin reflects your shirt. It happens with white people.”
I laugh. “I think that applies to the eyes, not the skin.” There’s a mirror on one wall, and I regard myself critically. “But I see what you mean about this color.” It’s just…nope. Jill should do better. “Well, I don’t want to walk around looking all, you know, pallid and weak. So lemme just get out of this thing…”
I pull the shirt off. Yuna’s small but audible inhalation as it goes over my head makes my gut tighten.
Topless and flexing all my muscles, I shift toward her. I make sure I have a super-sexy smile on my face, the kind every photographer I work with wants.
Yuna stays rooted, but her eyes have grown so wide they’re almost completely round. I reach out, my arm almost brushing against hers, our bodies close. My heart is racing, and her throat works as she swallows, her eyes riveted to mine.
Time seems to slow down. I reach…
…out…
…past her and take another shirt—one she laid out over the back of a couch. “Maybe this one will be better.”
“Um. You should try it on.” Her words come out unsteadily.
I put it on. The fabric is thin and slightly stretchy, molding to my torso.