Working It (6 page)

I decided to walk back rather than take the Metro so that I could find a cute little sidewalk café at which to treat myself. Two glasses of red wine and one delicious
tarte au chocolat
later, I was en route to the hotel, stumbling against the uneven cobblestone streets, delightfully buzzed and carefree. Ben who? I could take on the world right now. Or just master this archaic elevator to get to my room. Either way, I was counting tonight as a win.

When I reached my hotel room I was lightheaded and buzzed—from the wine, the sugar, my beautiful surroundings, or probably all three, but I wasn’t tired. After changing into my PJs, I fell into bed with my laptop. Perhaps some further stalking of Ben would relax me.

But before I could even open my browser, my inbox showed I had one new message.

The sender was Benjamin Riley Shaw.

My heart fluttered like a little idiot inside my chest as I waited for the message to load.

Ben: You disappeared today, Tennessee. Make it back to the hotel okay?

I hit reply, my breathing coming in fast pants.

Me: Back safe and sound. You looked great today, BTW.

The email notification blinked within seconds. So he was awake and at his computer, too, it seemed. My heartbeat thumped unevenly in my chest.

Ben: Thank you. It was fun today. I worked out after so I should be tired, but I’m not.

I worried why he seemed to have trouble sleeping. Perhaps it was the time zone change? And what about Gunnar’s comments today? Another message popped up before I could respond.

Ben: Want to entertain me?

Holy shit. How did he make four little words sound so fucking hot? Especially since I heard his deep, masculine voice in my head as I read them. I took my time, thinking of a cheeky response before I replied.

Me: Hmm. What does that involve, Mr. Shaw? I should probably behave myself.

Ben: You don’t have to behave.

If that wasn’t an open invitation to flirt with him, I didn’t know what was. I giggled to myself in the otherwise-silent room, wondering how to respond, when he sent another message through.

Ben: You want to text instead?

Me: Yes.

And by yes, I meant, God Bless America.

His phone number appeared in my inbox: 917 area code. How very New York City of him.

I crossed the room and grabbed my phone, typing in his number to compose a new text. One word—simple. It was my attempt at keeping things casual so I could see where he wanted to take this.

Me: Hi

His response came almost immediately.

Ben: Hi darlin’

Me: How do I know this isn’t someone pretending to be you? I’m slightly worried I could be talking to a forty-year-old overweight creeper. ;)

Ben was silent for a moment. Then my phone blinked at me, informing me I had a new photo message. It took my trembling fingers three attempts to tap the correct button on the screen to open it.

Ben was leaning against the headboard wearing a white V-neck T-shirt. His hair, though still shiny and full of pomade from earlier, had been fussed with, like he’d run his hands through it several times, giving it a messy just-been-fucked look. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked sexy as hell gazing thoughtfully into the camera. My heart pounded painfully hard. Seeing his photo made this all the more real.

Ben: Here’s your 40-year-old creeper ;)

Me: Cute.

Ben: Send me one of you.

I scrolled through the photos I already had on my phone. Crap. All of these were either me with Ellie, or with our dog Buck back home. I ran to the mirror, added some lip gloss, and fluffed my flat hair. I didn’t want him to think I was taking too long or overthinking this, so I snapped a quick selfie and hit send. It wasn’t my best picture, but it wasn’t horrible either. The lighting in my room was soft and lent a sort of romantic feel to it.

Ben: You look like a girl I fucked once.

Holy crap! He did not just say that to me. His responses floored me. He seemed so polite and well mannered one minute and then BAM! Filthy mouthed the next. I’d honestly wondered what he thought of my looks, and his comment, however crass, told me that perhaps I did measure up.

My phone pinged with a new message. That little ping was the sweetest sound.

Ben: What kind of panties are you wearing?

My pulse sped up. I wore full-bottomed undies, none of those damn dental-floss impersonating G-strings, thank you very much. Those blasted things felt like they were chaffing your ass like a piece of sandpaper. But dear Ben didn’t need to know all that information. I thoughtfully typed out my response.

Me: Depends on the day’s outfit. Right now I’m in pink lacy boy shorts.

Ben: It’d be better if they were around your ankles, but I approve.

Holy. Crap. Moisture dampened my panties. I fought to keep my thoughts under control and jumping into the gutter. I ran through a mental list of nonsexy things: his schedule this week, the location of his next photo shoot, what he smelled like, his dick size. Gah! Where did that come from? I bit my lip. I knew I should keep it clean, but being naughty sounded like so much more fun. He was proving to be a terrible influence on me.

Me: Eager tonight, aren’t we, Mr. Shaw?

Ben: Always, doll.

Me: Do you always text like this with Fiona’s assistants?

Ben: No. They’re usually men. And I told you, I like pussy.

God, anytime he used the p-word, I swear my lady parts clenched. Who knew I was such a glutton for a little dirty talk?

Me: How could I forget? You worded that so eloquently. Fine then, do you text like this w/ other girls often?

Ben: Depends on if I want to play with them or not.

I took a moment to compose myself and tried to decipher his words. He didn’t deny it. But did that mean he was playing with me? Or that I was special because I was one of the few he wanted to play with? I felt a wine headache coming on and typed out the first thing I could think of.

Me: Are you seeing anyone right now?

After I hit send, I silently cursed myself. I didn’t want to seem overly interested. He was probably just messing with me, anyway. Just bored and killing time. He couldn’t really be interested in me. Could he?

Ben: I don’t really date.

I could see that, I suppose. Being a model with a hectic travel schedule, it was probably hard for him to meet people, let alone quality women. My phone pinged again.

Ben: I don’t like to be tied down.

Ha! So much for giving him the benefit of the doubt. He was practically admitting to being a player. Summoning my courage, I typed a response back.

Me: Spoken like a true manwhore.

Take that! That would put him in his place. There was a subtle difference between being flirty and being a bitch, and I wanted to stay on the correct side of it. But sheesh, someone had to call him out.

Ben: Not a manwhore, babe. Only three girls have gotten it.

It.
My mouth went instantly dry. He was an exquisitely handsome man, quite obviously women threw themselves at him, yet only three lucky ladies had gotten the goods. That was rather curious information, if he was telling the truth. Maybe he had more restraint than I gave him credit for. Or maybe he’d had a long-term girlfriend somewhere along the way.

I wanted to type back and ask him why he was flirting with me when he could get anyone he wanted. I wondered if he even found me attractive. But of course I didn’t write any of that. I needed to play it cool.

Ben: Emmy?

Wow. I liked that he used my real first name more than was even remotely normal. Breathe, Emmy. Breathe.

Me: Yes?

Ben: Do you have plans for tomorrow?

Breathing became secondary as I took a moment to squeal like a giddy schoolgirl. There wasn’t a shoot tomorrow, and it would be one of the few days we had off, so Gunnar and I had planned to go to the Louvre.

Me: Not really. Probably going to do some sightseeing.

I was sooo canceling on Gunnar if the opportunity called for it. He would just have to deal with it. Our plans weren’t set in stone, anyway.

Ben: I have plans with Fiona during the day, but if you want to meet up for a drink later.

• • •

His friendship with Fiona still confused me, but maybe that was one of the things I could ask him about tomorrow. Perhaps she wasn’t such a fire-breathing dragon once you got to know her. Who knew? And maybe I could discreetly pump Gunnar for information.

Me: Sure. I can meet you later.

Ben: Meet me in the lobby at eight. We can walk to the place I have in mind for drinks.

Me: Great. See you then.

And just like that, I had a date with Ben Freaking Shaw.

5

Ben

Fiona signaled the waiter for more wine. I took a piece of bread from the basket in the center of our table and Fiona frowned. She could shove it.

She rattled on about some up-and-coming French designer and a sample sale she wanted me to take her to. Oh, joy. I tuned her out and let my mind drift back to last night.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Emmy’s playful texts. I’d really just been messing around, feeling sort of lonely and, not gonna lie, horny. I didn’t expect her to get naughty with me, yet she had. Even sent me a flirty pic of herself, softly lit, with bedroom eyes and pouty lips. I smiled at the memory.

I’d looked at the text first thing this morning, chuckling to myself. I was normally a really direct guy and told girls what I wanted. But I knew ordering her to come up to my room so I could fuck her wouldn’t have gone over well. Something told me Emmy was different from most girls. I could tell she wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. She was smart and hardworking. And her sweet southern accent was pretty fucking adorable.

I had a vitamin consultant, a massage therapist, an aesthetician, a personal trainer, a dietitian, an herbal consultant, a fucking grooming companion, whatever that was, and Gunnar—my personal assistant. The only thing I didn’t have here in Paris was a friend. Maybe Emmy could fill that role. Of course, I wanted to fuck her. Badly. And I doubted how friendly she’d feel toward me after that happened. And it would happen.

“What’s that smile for?” Fiona asked, pulling me from my reverie.

I swallowed hard, letting my smile fade. “Nothing.” Nothing she needed to know about, anyhow. I was looking forward to my plans with Emmy later.

Emmy

Pulling out the most recent stack of Post-its, I sat down on my bed with a cup of coffee to sort through them. I figured I would handle a few of Fiona’s personal affairs before I went out sightseeing for the day. After booking her facial appointment and making dinner reservations for her and Ben early that Sunday night, I decided some further Ben Shaw research was in order.

Relaxing on my duvet with my laptop, I typed his name into Google and hit enter, then I sat back to enjoy the view. Holy Mother, he was hot.

My brain screamed at me,
Abort! Abort!
I knew this was a bad idea, yet I couldn’t help myself. I watched him go about his life: VIP parties, red-carpet events, black-tie charity functions with a beautiful model on his arm, and photos of him at the beach on his Instagram page. A sharp pain stabbed at my chest.

It was a decidedly baaad idea to crush on him, I knew that. But he was gorgeous, and he flirted with me. Clearly my fantasies knew no limit. I hoped that wouldn’t come to a crashing end tonight when he realized I was so far out of his league that there were probably laws against us dating. Yet still, my stalking knew no bounds. Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. I’d need a twelve-step program if I were to cut myself off from this. But he was so good-looking, I couldn’t possibly be held accountable for my actions.

He seemed to communicate professionally and politely with fans online, but I liked that I secretly knew he had an absolutely filthy mouth.

Pulling myself away from my computer, I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed my camera. Gunnar had hooked up with a French waiter last night and subsequently canceled on me since they were apparently still in bed. Regardless, the Louvre and I still had a hot date today. It was just the cultural and visual distraction, and I needed the diversion to keep my thoughts from diving into the gutter.

• • •

Deciding what to wear on a date with Ben Shaw was like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube in the dark. Damn near impossible. I tried on and abandoned nearly every article of clothing I brought. But soon, it was ten minutes to eight and I was forced to make a decision. A pair of dark-washed skinny jeans, ballet flats since he’d said we’d be walking, and a lacy black top with a camisole underneath.

There was just one question: Did I wear my Spanx to keep everything looking tucked in and in tip-top shape? Or did I hope for action later and forgo those awful things, knowing there was no sexy way to get them off? No, there would be no action later—that was silly. He was him. And I was me. Duh. It was a no-brainer. Still, I chose in favor of breathing and opted to leave the Spanx behind.

My hair was down and pin-straight and my makeup had cooperated for once. I’d managed to line my eyes with liquid eyeliner without stabbing myself in the retina even once.
Yay, me!

Ben was already waiting in the lobby when I got downstairs. Since he hadn’t yet looked up, I allowed my eyes to rake over him unashamedly, noting the way his black leather jacket stretched across his shoulders and hugged his biceps and his white V-neck T-shirt exposed his very kissable throat. His shirt was just snug enough to hint at how cut he was underneath. I could already envision the washboard abs hiding beneath the fabric. He could’ve just walked off a
GQ
shoot with the sexy charm he exuded. I didn’t stand a chance. He was all man, but he was stylish as well and I suddenly felt a pang of nerves, realizing my clothes carried none of the designer labels his did. Did that type of thing matter to him?