Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,3

pockets of his wet chinos. The shirt clings to broad shoulders and forms droplets on the tan skin. “A fall on the stone would have been far worse.”

Jordan glances at him, eyes wide. A realization dawns in them. “Tina is going to drop me,” she whispers.

“She will do no such thing,” I tell her firmly. “The agency wouldn’t have sent you here if they didn’t like your work.”

“This is my first booking,” she whispers.

And her fear makes sense, as does my sneaking suspicion that she fainted because she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had enough to drink, and standing out there in the sun did her in.

I grit my teeth. “When was the last time you ate?”

The guilty look on her face is enough, even if she doesn’t answer me.

“All right,” I say, all my physical therapy and anatomy lessons kicking in. “You need to change into warm clothing. There are towels in the bathroom. Think you can do that?”

She nods, and I help her walk to the en suite. “Don’t lock the door,” I tell her. “I’ll stand guard, but if you get the least bit dizzy, call out.”

“I will,” she whispers, pushing the door closed behind her.

I blow out a frustrated breath and run a hand through my now wet length of hair. Tina won’t be happy about this, that much is true. The head of our modeling agency rules it with an iron fist. And every model I talk to who doesn’t eat enough reminds me why I dislike this part-time industry of mine.

“You should change too,” Rhys points out, nodding tactfully to my second-skin dress. A glance down reveals what I already know—my nipples are hard and visible through the fabric. Thank you, unheated pool.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You dove in after us.”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” The words come out through gritted teeth. His words to his friends still ring in my head. Vain. Air-headed. They’re just models, as if our profession and our identities are fused. I hate it when people do that.

His mouth quirks at a corner, like he’s smiling at a joke only he’s heard. “All right,” he says. “Do you need anything else?”

Anything else? As if Jordan and I had asked for his help. “No thank you,” I tell him. “We’re just models, after all.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair, smile widening on his face. “That’s right.”

Completely unashamed.

The sight of that smile is so disarming that I take a few steps back, caught off guard. The steady dripping of water from my hair echoes in the room.

“I should change.”

“Of course.” He turns to leave, but pauses with a hand on the door out of the pool house. “You had quick reflexes earlier.”

The words are spoken like it’s the greatest of compliments.

“Uh… yes.”

A single nod of his head, and then he disappears, the door closing behind him. When Jordan and I emerge later, there’s an overflowing plate of food pilfered from the catering table waiting outside. But the man who’d left it is long gone

.

2

Rhys

Two weeks later

“It’s been a long time since we’ve made a bet like this,” I comment, following Ben down the hallways of his luxury travel agency. He’d been tired of me complaining about how all the commercial stuff was beneath me. You think you can shoot my next travel campaign better than a marketing agency?

There had been only one answer to that.

Of course I can.

Ben chuckles. “A decade, perhaps more.”

“Remind me to stop going out with you,” I tell him, “or I’ll keep bargaining weeks of my life away.”

“Admit it. You love the challenge.”

I don’t answer. I look at the framed, glossy pictures that line the walls of his agency instead. Highly edited. Oversaturated. Beautiful beaches and turquoise, mirror-like water. It’s easy. Basic.

Anyone can photograph beautiful environments and make them look, well, beautiful. Point and shoot. All you need is an iPhone, for Christ’s sake. Where’s the art?

“This is what you want me to shoot?”

Ben slaps a hand on my shoulder, even if he has to reach up to do it. His shit-eating grin is obnoxious. “Yes. Doubting your talents?”

“No. And my pictures won’t look anything like this asinine shit.” I point to a picture where a coconut has been placed in white sand, photographed up close with the ocean in the background. “Prepare yourself for a masterpiece.”

As much as I don’t travel like Ben’s clients, I understand them intimately. They’re my parents. They’re my siblings. They’re the people I grew up with, the people