The Flatiron building has always been one of my favorite buildings in the city. Gorgeous architecture and a great neighborhood. All benefits for me.

I made sure to leave my house earlier than I normally would, and make it in plenty of time. Fleece and I aren’t even exactly sure what the exhibition is, even though we spent more than enough time last night poring over the casting call for any details they might have slipped in. There was nothing. The only thing we know is that it will be over the top. Everything that Andrew Xellum does is over the top, which does nothing to ease the growing ball of nerves in my stomach. But at the very least, Fleece did coach me through what I would be doing with hair and make-up and what to say in case I have any problems. She’d be a good agent, if that were her thing.

Even though I’m early, May is waiting in the lobby of the building. She gives me a warm smile, and I know that at least part of it is relief that I’m not late. “Right this way.”

She sweeps me through a side door into a tiny room that’s been converted into a dressing room. There are already way too many people in here. Oh god, I can’t breathe. What if this is a mistake? I need a second to stall. I pull May to the side. “Sorry, I just want to know what it is exactly that I’m doing before I go in there.”

Her face goes blank for a second. “Oh, I’m sorry sweetie. I forgot that you don’t have an agent that would have told you. Today Mr. Xellum is having a display of his clothes in the Prow Art Space. You’ll be on a rotating platform, and every 10 minutes, the curtains drop for you to change clothes.”

Nerves crawl in my gut. “So I’ll be just standing there with people looking at me?” I guess that’s what modeling is, but doing it in a window somehow seems really different than walking down a runway.

“Yes, that’s the idea. A living mannequin who can change her pose and make the clothes come to life. And you’ll be modeling day and evening counterparts. Convertible clothes that a woman can spend the whole day in.” She leads me inside. “Oh, and before I forget, here’s your pay rate. I’ll need your bank details for direct deposit.”

I look down at the piece of paper that she’s handed me. I struggle to keep my jaw from dropping. “Are you serious?” To a lot of people, three thousand dollars might not seem like a lot of money, but it’s going to save my ass. I’ll be able to pay my rent and my bills.

May laughs, “Yes, we’re serious. If Mr. Xellum likes your performance, I’m sure you’ll be up for more jobs. Once he takes a liking to someone, there’s always work.” She pushes me into the make-up chair with a firm hand on my shoulder.

“If that’s true, then why was he looking for someone new?”

She smiles. “Mr. Xellum can be a bit…avant-grade with his shows. Not everyone is up for it. This one is tame by his usual standards.”

I nod, making a note to look up his other work when I get home this evening. I was too nervous to look at much last night because I would imagine myself doing those crazy things and it didn’t help my nerves. I send up a prayer that the things he has planned aren’t too out there for me. If the money is this good for every job, it could really change my life.

May rushes away, and I’m left in the room with a bunch of strangers. A bunch of strangers whose job it is to make me perfect for this exhibition. The make-up artist goes to work on me, and over the next thirty minutes, I transform from someone ordinary into a dark-eyed woman with sexy, curly hair and shiny lips.

Never in my life have I looked this good, and when I tell the make-up artist, she laughs.

“I don’t know about that,” a deep voice says from behind me. “I imagine you look this good all the time.”

Andrew Xellum is standing in the doorway, that same hungry look on his face as he takes in my hair and make-up. He glances at my crew. “I need to show her the space.”

My make-up artist nods. “She’s ready; everything but touch-ups.”

“Excellent. Delia, if you’ll come with me please.”

I stand and follow him. We go down a narrow hallway and into a windowed space covered in curtains. I recognize it as the inside of the Prow Art Space, the tiny glass gallery on the very tip of the flatiron building. The ground is covered in gauze and fluffy fabric that makes it look like we’re walking on a cloud, and I imagine that it will look that way from the outside as well. Just like May described, there’s a circular platform. Andrew—can I call him Andrew if it’s only in my head?—holds out his hand. “Up here, please.”

An electric jolt goes through me as our skin makes contact. I can feel that touch through my entire body and damn, does it feel good. Suddenly I’m trying to remember the last time I was touched by a man, even casually. It’s been way too long if a touch on the hand is making my body feel this way. Or maybe it’s him. Holy shit, I’m staring at our joined hands and this is my new boss. I blush furiously and he gives me a smirk that makes it seem like he knows exactly what that skin-on-skin contact did to me.

“You’ll be up here the entire exhibition. You won’t have to move. The curtains will rise, and you’ll be in the first outfit. After 10 minutes, the crew will come in and convert the look from day to night. That will be in full view; it’s the whole point. The clothes are designed to change tone quickly, and you won’t ever be exposed. After the next ten minutes, the curtains fall and the crew will help you do a quick change before they rise again. Pretty simple.”

I clear my throat. “Do you want me to stand still? Change poses?”

It’s such a basic question, something a more experienced model should know, that I almost expect him to laugh. I’m desperate for any clue on how to do this and keep down the latte that I had earlier. But he doesn’t laugh. He considers, stepping back and taking me in, even though I’m only in my tank top and jeans. “You can move,” he says after a moment of silence. “Just not too fast. I’d say maybe two or three poses per look. That will give you time for a couple of revolutions for each pose.”

“Okay,” I nod. “I can do that.”

Andrew checks his watch. “Curtains go up in fifteen minutes,” he says with a little smile. “I’ll be watching.”

A shiver goes through me as he turns to leave, and my mouth opens before I can stop it. “Why me?” He turns back at the door. “You could have had so many models with more experience. Not someone who’s never modeled before. So why?”

Just like with my earlier question, I can see him consider his words carefully. “Most people in fashion are looking for something brand new. A look or a combination of features that they’ve never seen before. That’s not what I look for in a model. I want someone who makes me feel. When she walks down a runway or you see her in a photograph, she has a spark that connects with you.”

“So you’re saying you think that I have that spark?”

He smiles. “No. You don’t have the spark. You have the whole damn fire.”

And then he leaves me there gaping after him, my entire body tingling with his words.

One of the crew comes to get me, and while they dress me I’m in a daze. I don’t think I’ve ever made that kind of impression on anyone before. And the way he looks at me gives me shivers down my body that make me imagine darker, more intimate moments with just the two of us between a set of sheets.

I lock those thoughts down because this is a job, and he’s my boss and I can’t afford to think like that when I’m about to be stared at for four hours. I’m dressed in a pair of long bolero pants and a coral dress shirt, and my face and hair get tweaks as I’m guided down the narrow hallway again.

God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve never been afraid of getting up in front of people, but this feels entirely different. New. Nerve-wracking. I’m helped up onto the platform, and I wobble in my heels. They arrange my pants around the shoes and I nearly lose my footing again as the rotating platform starts to move. Suddenly there’s music, and I know that the music will play outside as well. The curtain starts to go up and I try to control my breathing as I pick a pose. This is real. This is real. This is real.

There’s a crowd of people gathered outside the windows. Of course there is. If what May said is true, then Andrew Xellum is famous for works of fashion bordering on performance art. Anyone like that is going to have fans that show up to see his next piece of work. Oh god, I might throw up. Don’t look at them. Don’t look at them. I don’t focus on the faces; I focus beyond them as I’m turned around slowly. I pick a point and stare at it for as long as I can, and it helps me keep my balance. If I’m going to be rotating for four hours I can’t afford to be dizzy.

I’m on my second rotation when I see Andrew. He’s standing further back from the crowd, watching just like he said he would be. All those thoughts I tried to lock down come flooding back and my focus narrows to just him. I don’t feel dizzy or overwhelmed or panicked. Instead I feel a new kind of focus, that crippling nervousness I felt moments ago melting away. I slowly change my pose, aware that his eyes are on me, and the movement is slow, sensual, and right. I suppose if you have the right audience you can always find what feels right.

There’s not enough time to think about what Andrew Xellum being the right audience means because the crew is here and they’re changing the look. A few clever hooks in hidden places and the bolero pants separate and are folded up into a sexy short skirt. Openings in the sleeves of the blouse appear to show a little more skin, and suddenly it feels like I’m ready to go dancing.

I let a smile appear on my face as I change my pose and rotate. I see Andrew nod. He likes this. I like it too. It’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be, especially when I can feel his eyes on me. It feels like no time at all until the curtains drop and I’m whirled into the next outfit, and then the next. There’s a theme to the clothes, each look starting out tame, and becoming sexier and sexier with each transition. I feel sexy too, knowing that wherever he is, he’s watching. He’s been moving around outside the window, and every time I find him again I get a burst of energy.

The curtains drop and the crew rushes in. “Last one,” someone whispers to me. It’s a deep purple gown with a plunging neckline, lace sleeves and plenty of sheer material around my legs. This is definitely the most couture of the things I’ve had on today. I step into the dress, and there’s some type of body suit inside, but I don’t have a good picture of what the transformation will be. It doesn’t matter though because I’m high on the moment.

The curtains rise and I sweep the skirt out and let it drop. I can’t be a mannequin in this dress, it needs movement. I break my rules for this one, and I don’t stop moving. Even though it’s slow so I don’t fall off my pedestal, I dance, swaying with the music that’s flowing through the speakers and making the dress dance too.

The crew comes in for the final time, and this time there isn’t a clever flowing and clipping. With two buttons, half the dress falls off, revealing the bodysuit I felt underneath. It’s more skin than fabric, and I realize that this is the final transition: eveningwear into lingerie.

I lose my momentum for just a second. Do I want to be in front of half of New York in my underwear? The answer comes immediately and unexpectedly. Yes. Striking a new pose, I raise my arms above my head and lean into it, using poses that push the line between fashion and something too sexy for the Flatiron building on a sunny afternoon. I find Andrew again, but this time he’s not outside. He’s standing in the doorway of the gallery. The encouraging smile he’s worn this whole time is gone, replaced with a look of intensity and sheer heat.

The curtains drop and the crew comes to help me down. Suddenly I realize how exhausted I am. My feet are aching from hours in high heels and I’m sweating. I didn’t feel any of it until this moment. Someone from the crew hands me a water bottle, and another one a robe. They pull me down the hallway, I assume to get me out of hair and make-up, but Andrew stops them. “I’d like a moment alone with Delia, please.”

No one even questions, just subtly disappearing and leaving the two of us alone. But not even that is enough, because he pulls me into another tiny room across from the dressing room. It’s cluttered with random electronics and paraphernalia for the gallery, and there’s barely room for the two of us to stand together, but we do.

He towers over me, and I can feel the heat coming off his body in the small space. “That,” he says, “was everything I hoped for.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” I say, breathless at how close he is after hours of being drunk on the feeling of his gaze. I want to reach out and touch him, and he’s so close that I’m can barely stop myself from reaching out.

“I want you,” he says, and my breath catches. “I want you to work for me.”

Stupid, Delia. Of course he wants you to work. This was a job, not an audition for which model is going to fall into his bed. On the heels of disappointment comes a wave of happiness. He wants me to work. I can pay my bills and not have to worry about being evicted! “I’d like that.”

“I want to know if you can handle it,” he says, his voice sliding low. “I want to know that you’ll do everything that I ask, because I haven’t found a muse like you in a long time.”

“A muse?” I smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called someone’s muse before.”

“I want you to be mine,” he says, inching just a little closer, and I suddenly find it hard to breathe. “I want you to say yes, not only for me, but because it will help you too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”

“The things I’ll ask you to do won’t always be easy. And a lot of them will push your limits. But they’ll also help you become more. I told you, you have that fire in you, and I want to help you make the world burn brighter with it.”

I laugh a little, his passion at once arousing and unnerving me. “You come on a little strong, Mr. Xellum.”

“Yes, I do,” he says, his expression not changing. “And I always will. I know what I want and I never compromise, which is why I need to know if you’re able to handle it.”

“I think you’ll be surprised at what I’m able to handle,” I say, giving him a sly smile. “I accept.”

“Perfect,” he says, straightening. “I’ll tell May and she’ll handle the details.”

He opens the door and strides out, just like yesterday, leaving me gaping and turned on in his wake. The man certainly has a flare for dramatic and abrupt exits. Damn.

I lean against the wall, my energy evaporating, but I’m smiling. I have a job and the hottest boss in the world.