How long does it take to get unemployment, anyway? I doubt I抦 even eligible since I wasn抰 part of Purry Furniture for long.
Also, it抯 still Friday the Thirteenth. The day抯 barely half over.
Plenty of opportunities to dump more messes in my lap, I think sourly, popping the truffle in my mouth.
For a second, I wilt back against the bench, smiling as a sugar high washes over me.
Good Lord. Whatever else is conspiring to go wrong today, it抯 got nothing to do with the chocolate goodness bursting in my mouth, sweeping my woes away for thirty whole seconds.
When I open my eyes, there抯 a camera crew bustling around the park. Their tight, hurried movement pulls me from my thoughts.
A heavyset bearded man frames the shot with his hands, counts down, and yells, 揂ction!?
Two guys with cameras swing themselves around the scene. A statuesque woman stands in the middle of the circle like this weird oracle, her head tilted slightly up, a blue dress blowing gently in the wind.
On a day like this, how does she even manage a gently rustling garment?
The wind almost bowled me over on my way to the bench. Or maybe it was the broken heel.
Models. Bah.
They know how to make life look easy.
All of these people do, actually. They抮e real artists, creators playing midwives to the images in their heads. Making real art and getting paid real money.
Bitter much?
Yes. I. Am.
I glance down at the stupid bedazzled pink folder on my lap, wondering who you have to kill to be a real artist with a real salary. Also, why does that woman have to be so perfect?
When I look up from the folder, there抯 a new man staring at me.
Holy Hercules.
When did I miss the lightning bolt that sent him down? If Miss Model looks flawless, this guy is divine.
Over six feet of sculpted muscle stuffed into an Italian suit that probably costs more than my parents?mortgage.
The cut of his chin, lethal.
Thick sandy-brown hair like a lion抯 mane.
The cheekbones, the brow, the dusting of a well-trimmed beard all hint at an inner wildness tucked behind his hell no to any and all nonsense expression.
What really makes me clench my coffee cup until it dents in, though, are his eyes.
Hands down.
Yes, they抮e blue, but to liken them to a pristine sky or beautiful gems almost feels offensive.
His ocean-blue eyes are riptides, humming with a distant, unforgiving energy. Still so close I can feel it like the ozone before a storm.
His gaze sends an instant shock down my spine, and my whole body tingles. My toes shrink up inside my mismatched heel boots.
He…he has to be a male model, right? But the better question is why he抯 looking at me like a scorned Casanova.
Oh.
Oh, God.
His expression turns me inside out. One arched eyebrow raised significantly higher than the other and cocky as hell.
I glance down, desperate for an excuse to break eye contact. And halfway afraid I抦 in the middle of a terrible wardrobe malfunction I抦 clueless about.
Nope.
Sweater dress still intact.
Heart still beating.
Panties still safely concealed where they should be…
I think?
When I look at him again, those feral eyes have shifted away from me, back to the photo shoot. I slowly exhale a sigh of relief.
This stranger and his sexy voodoo eyes are just the kind of trouble I don抰 need today.
The chubby bearded guy close to him, who I peg as the photo manager from the way he scurries between the cameramen and Miss Perfect, becomes the focus of the male model抯 glare. Stroking his chin, he watches the scene with a cold eye and clenched jaw.
I frown.
Everyone seems to be working their butts off to please this guy, and he can抰 do more than grump-stare and make slight hand gestures now and then?
Life in the arts is hard enough, but having to kowtow to an entitled suit…woof.
Don抰 feel too sorry for these people, Brina, I remind myself. They抮e still getting paid by Mr. Entitlement. Well, hopefully.
But still. That抯 what suit-wearing pricksters do. They treat the artists who make their precious ads that they depend on like trash. Without us, they抎 be nothing.
I glare at the annoyingly gorgeous jerkface and take a loud slurp of my latte.
Model Man抯 stabby blue eyes jerk to mine again. This time, I hold my ground, telling the butterfly swarm in my belly to stay put.
He holds a thick hand up, pointed directly at me, and motions to the statue beside my bench. Like he抯 telling me to move without even having the decency to come over and ask politely.
Bad, bad move, Neanderthal.
Of course he does it again, this time more forcefully.
Of course.
Really? You don抰 even know me and you think you can order me around?
With a snort, I dig my heels梠kay, heel梚nto the ground. If looks could kill, there抎 be a smoking crater right where his smug, rude, devilishly fine figure used to be.
Their group takes a break a minute later, and the chubby production guy jogs over.
揌i t-there,?he stammers, stopping in front of the bench I抦 sitting on, leaning on the back of it to catch his breath.
I give a floppy wave and sip my latte, bracing for what抯 next.
揝o, I was wondering if there抯 any chance you抎 be willing to move? This spot has better lighting for our shoot. I hate to ask. I抦 sure you抮e just out here enjoying your day, but…it抯 a big job. We抎 be really grateful if you could clear it.?
Could I 揷lear it??Sure, let me just vacate public property with a grateful smile. All so your rich bitch boss can get his ever so important shots.
Before I can string the words together to form a nicer response桰 know this guy is just a fellow minion doing his job桵r. Rich Bitch himself stomps up.
揧ou抮e going to have to move, miss. We need this spot.?At least his grumpalicious voice matches his looks.
I meet his eyes and smile. Not because he抯 just as confusingly barbaric and good-looking up close.
揘ow,?he adds, when I don抰 move an inch after several long seconds.
I blink, shocked at his bluntness. I open my mouth to respond, but I haven抰 gotten a word out before he folds his arms, his brows drawn together like thunderheads.
How fitting that he has the temperament of a heartless Greek god, too.
揟his is public property. I抦 not going anywhere,?I snap, giving him my best defiant face. 揗y mom says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know. Maybe you should try it.?
His eyebrow quirks up. 揂s cute as clich?Midwestern sayings are, there抯 a marketing campaign happening here with a very tight schedule, and you抮e stealing our light.?
Oh, their light.
I抎 forgotten.
How do you steal sunlight, anyway? Is he so rich he thinks he owns the sun? Arrogance and entitlement go together like chocolate and peanut butter with this dude.
揝o sorry. I bet you抮e pouring a ton of money into this campaign, aren抰 you??I ask sweetly.
He nods, his scowl easing. 揑抦 glad you get it, so if you抣l just棓
揥hat I get is that you should抳e locked down a more private venue for your little campaign if it抯 life or death. This is a public park, last I checked, and I抦 not moving until every last bit of my cinnamon latte is gone.?I hold up my cup, sloshing the liquid around loudly.
He crosses those huge arms again, his shoulders bowing out like they抮e ready to rip through his imported fabric. 揕ady, I抦 done being polite. If you don抰 get your ass in the air, I抣l move you myself.?
Whoa. That was polite? I wonder what rude looks like…but I抦 more interested in telling this millionaire bully where he can shove it.