Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,1

in line for castings… and all the while, I’d study in my head. First for my online bachelor’s degree. It might have taken me five years to complete part-time, but I’d done it, while modeling paid the bills. It didn’t hurt that the job had other perks too. The dress I’m wearing fits like it was made for me—and I’d heard it whispered amongst the models that the designer in question often gifted his samples to models.

I wouldn’t mind taking this one home.

My gaze drifts over the sea of guests milling around the pool. Colorful drinks are in hand, or food from a catering table located somewhere inside the house. I see mini Beef Wellingtons. Oysters served on ice. Something that looks like chicken sliders.

My stomach rumbles loudly at the sight.

I press a hand to my side, making it look like a pose, and glance over to the guests sitting in the lounge chairs next to me. But they hadn’t noticed.

It’s a group of men in suits. Well, all except one. The man in the middle wears a linen button-down with the top button undone, a long leg thrown over the other. Worn, expensive boat shoes on his feet.

He’s not speaking, but he’s being spoken to—the others look to him.

He gazes at the man talking with an expression that’s haughty disdain and cool indifference rolled into one. Everything about him screams impress me.

Then his gaze shifts to mine. A dark lock of hair falls over a tan forehead, the look in his eyes switching into what do you want?

I tear my gaze away.

It’s unprofessional to stare. To be anything more than a living statue, a piece of art. I’m displaying the clothes, and that’s all.

So I keep my gaze on the milling guests beyond, changing poses, sticking out my hip. And yet all my attention is on the group of men to my side.

If I strain my ears, I can just make out their conversation. I’m not a fly on the wall, I’m a model by the pool, but at events like this, there’s really no difference.

“Australia is the right move,” a man says. “We should have the place open before the year’s end.”

“Sydney?” another asks.

“Yes.”

A deep humming sound.

“Skeptical, Rhys?” the first voice asks.

I dare a glance over.

The man who watched me is leaning forward now, hands braced on his knees. I’d wager he’s about thirty.

“You know I am. You’re making it too easy for people.”

Another of the men laughs. “Yes, and god forbid anything be easy. Where did you just return from? The Andes?”

“Yes.” A wild, taunting grin on his face. “You should try hiking sometime.”

“No, thank you. I’ll leave that to the customers.”

The dark-haired man named Rhys gives a snort of disdain. “As if they’d leave a five-star resort.”

“Some do. It’s all part of the experience.”

“The carefully packaged, curated experience, you mean.” He leans back in his chair and turns his gaze back to mine, catching me eavesdropping. Our gazes lock.

Again.

“Can we help you with anything?” His raised voice isn’t friendly, an eyebrow cocked in the same expression as earlier. Like he’s skeptical of the world at large.

Crap.

“No.” I toss my hair back. It’s a vain move, but it’s part of the role I’m playing tonight. “Sorry.”

“Can’t fault the woman for getting bored,” one of his friends points out. He turns drink-glazed eyes on me, sweeping them up and down my form. It’s a perusal I’m used to.

Doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

“How long do you have to stand up there, sweetheart?”

I keep from gritting my teeth at his tone, at the epitaph. Acting professional is all I have to do.

“Until the end of the party,” I say, waving a hand over my dress. “Showcasing the upcoming collection.”

Well, that was a mistake.

All four of the men now look down at my minuscule dress, and I don’t think it’s to admire the intricacy of the pattern. Rhys leans back in the sofa, an arm outstretched along the back of it. He doesn’t say a thing, even if he’d been the one to call me out on my staring.

“Are you allowed to drink?” one of his friends asks. “Are you even allowed to talk?”

I give them a polite smile. “There are refreshments for us in the back. They said nothing about talking, but I’m guessing it’s not what they had in mind, no.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I’d be bored after a few minutes.”

“You’re bored with everything after a few minutes,” Rhys drawls at him. “This isn’t an