My body is already slowly eating itself. It’s the main reason why I want to quit modeling. My health has been tanking from the sleep stuff—add this and I know I may do some damage.
I chew on the gritty bar that tastes more like tree bark than peanut butter and almonds. Christina is finished before me since she has less hair to braid. I’m going to be here for another two hours, I swear. At least the makeup artist has joined the other girl in the braiding. I tried to do a strand by my face, but the stylist slapped my hand away.
The chair fills quickly beside me. A male model slouches down, holding a whole bowl of fruit. He notices the granola bar in my hand. “Where’d you get that?” he asks enviously.
“The tree people,” I tell him, taking another bite and passing him the granola. “What’s wrong with the fruit?”
He bites the bar and sinks back in his chair like he’s in food heaven. It makes me smile, one of the first times I’ve done so since arriving in Paris.
“Carbs,” he says, answering my question. “Craft service only has fruit and raw vegetables.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “They told us we can eat whatever we want, but either all the waifs scarfed down the crackers and sandwiches or someone tricked me.”
“They don’t want anyone to overeat,” I say. “Some years the selection is better.”
“Last year,” he says with a nod. “Last year was better. They had muffins.”
I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”
“Blueberry and banana nut.”
“You are a cruel, cruel person…” I trail off and get a good look at him, realizing I’ve never met this model before.
“Ian,” he says, taking another bite of my bar. He has muscles, not a “waif” as he called the naturally skinny guys. His face is classically beautiful like a Greek statue. I’ve seen him in a cologne ad, I think. He holds out the granola to me.
“You finish it,” I say.
“I’ll trade you.” He raises the fruit. “It’s no muffin, but…” He smiles. And of course, it’s gorgeous, full white teeth, bright and welcoming.
I like this guy. He speaks my food language. “I’ll take it.” We swap. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”
“I know. I think I sat on your face at a bus stop today.”
I mock gasp. “You sat on my face? Impossible. I don’t let strangers do that.”
He laughs. A stylist sprays blue dye in his hair. Fashion designers are crazy. I should know, Rose is one. Though she didn’t get invited here. She’s still back in Philly.
“So,” he says, “I’m six-two, blue eyes, brown hair, twenty-five…” He tilts his head towards me as his stylist pauses to reach for hair spray. “I can list off my measurements, but something tells me you won’t care about the size of my chest.” This reminds me of a similar conversation that I had with Ryke once upon a time. He was trying to convince me to eat cake.
“Your hips also don’t have to be measured in the morning,” I told him.
“They can be,” Ryke said. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my hips?”
“And your ass.”
“You want to know the size of my ass?” His brows rose.
“Yep.”
“Eat the cake.”
I smile more out of remembrance from that moment than out of attraction towards Ian.
I shake my head at Ian. “Only your ass.”
He grins. “I only give that to girls I really like.”
“Damn,” I say. A pit sinks to my stomach. We’re flirting. I don’t want to taint that memory I had with Ryke by continuing this banter with Ian. It’s starting to make me a little nauseous. Maybe that’s the fruit or the one bite of tree bark. But this could be a good thing. He could be my number seven. This is what Ryke wanted, right? Stop hanging onto what could be, Daisy. Let Ryke and the past go.
Ian wears an easygoing smile as he checks me out. “You want to meet up later?” he asks.
Maybe commenting on his ass was a bigger signal than I thought. Ryke never acted on the flirty nature of our conversations. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like him. Most guys will prod further, not stop at a point. They want the sex. All of it. Not just the dirty talk. Maybe this is a good thing. It doesn’t feel that way.
But I think about going back to my room late tonight after runways. The balcony doors don’t have deadbolts, so it’d be really easy for someone to punch through the glass and just unlock the door from the inside. I couldn’t sleep the first night because I kept glancing at that door. Maybe having Ian around will help me calm down…and maybe sex will help me sleep without Ambien. I haven’t tried it before, but I also never wanted to medicate with sex.