“Merci for being my driving instructor again today.”

Not wanting to break her concentration, I reply, “I know you wanted to practice.”

I’ve fallen down on my job of investigating suitable driving schools. I was too jet-lagged since we returned to LA a couple of days ago to look into them—not to mention dealing with paperwork for my new gym—so I agreed to today’s excursion. I make a mental note to do this research over the weekend while she’s in Las Vegas and I’m observing Complete’s Summer Competition. In addition to getting some time in at Vets for Military Dogs.

Emilie drove us to the beach, where we picked up the five gallons of sand McKenna needs for Rose’s shower. Now, she’s navigating through the mid-afternoon LA traffic—albeit not on the freeway—with more confidence than before. She’s even managed to make several turns with only one windshield wiper incident. How does she even do that? I rub my fingers around my jaw, noting a small patch I missed this morning while shaving.

We pass through an intersection in the right lane. “You’ll need to make a left at the next light.”

She nods, her lip between her teeth, and checks the side-view mirror before signaling her move to the next lane. When we stop at the stop sign, she blows out a breath, her hair flying up off her forehead.

“Everything okay? You’re doing great.”

She goes through the intersection and continues along the route to her attorney’s office. “Oui. I am good with the driving. It is just—”

She stops talking when an asshole comes from nowhere and cuts her off, horn blaring. Her hands shake on the steering wheel and her posture straightens. She slams on the brakes and, not having time to grab onto the roll bar, I stop my forward motion on the dash instead.

At a dead stop in the through lane, she turns her head to me. Wide-eyed, she asks, “What did I do wrong?”

I reach over and put my hand over one of hers. Not only is it shaking, it’s ice cold. Not a good recipe for a new driver. Indignation on her behalf rises. Releasing her hand, I say, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes drivers are total assholes.”

Her lips quiver upward and she inhales. She takes her foot off the brake and eases onto the accelerator. After going a few feet, she sighs and turns on her right blinker.

“Where are you going, Emilie? We don’t have to turn again for another mile.”

She turns toward the curb and puts the Jeep into park. “Wills, I know I need the practice, but I am feeling not so comfortable. Would it be alright if you finished driving us to the attorney’s office? I will drive us back home.” She makes an “X” over her heart. “Promise.”

Whoa. I’ve never seen her so defeated. Quirking my head, I ask, “What’s up?”

She unclasps her seat belt. “Are you sure you want to know? I am probably just being an overmelodic model.”

A what? Problems with her English come out when she’s upset—I’ve seen that before—so I try to decipher what she intended to say. I can’t. “You’re an excellent model.”

She sighs again and opens her door. I scramble to unbuckle my seat belt and meet her at the front of the vehicle. Placing my fingers underneath her chin, I bring her eyes up to mine. The brown is accentuated over the green today. “I’ll let you be the passenger this once. If you’re going to get your driver’s license, though, you’ll have to be able to handle jerks on the road, okay?”

She nods. and stands in the front of my Jeep waiting for me to let her go. Which I do.

Once we’re back on the road, I give her tips about how I’m driving. She nods in understanding but without all the wide-eyed exuberance I’ve come to expect from her during driving lessons. I want to gut punch whoever made Emilie this defeated.

“Out with it.”

She drops her hand from her lip. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you look so … upset? Was it the driving?”

“No.” She checks her fingernails, painted a lime green. She extends them toward me. “See this color?”

Without taking my eyes from the road, I nod. “I saw them before. Green.” Not the right shade, if you ask me though. Not like her eyes at all.

“Oui. They are green. But they should have been pink.”

Furrowing my brow, I ask, “Didn’t the manicurist listen to you?”

“It was not the manicurist. It was the television commercial people who instructed the manicurist.”

I’m not following. It’s just a color. “Did you tell them you didn’t like it?”

“I did. They did not listen. And not just about my nail color. They did not listen to what I had to say about anything.”

I process what she just told me as I make a left turn onto her attorney’s road. “You mean, they ignored your suggestions?”

“Yes. I only had a couple of things I thought would make the commercial better, you know? More realistic. How real people use their cosmetics.”

I’m so out of my depth, but I nod. Emilie deserves to have her ideas heard, even if they go over my head.

“The people—the director and assistants—told me they would take my ideas ‘under advisement.’” Her green fingernails make air quotes. “But then we wrapped and none of them were used.”

I scratch my jaw. “I’m sorry. That sucks. Was this your first commercial?”

“No.” She runs her hands down her legs, today covered with black trousers. Even in such masculine attire, she evokes all sorts of thoughts that don’t belong in my head.

She continues, “I was told I would have a large wardrobe selection. In the end, one of the outfits they put me in was an evening dress. Why would the customer who uses these cosmetics for everyday use be wearing such attire? Made no sense to me.”

“I see your point.”

A real smile emerges from her for the first time. “I told them so, but it did not change anything. My other suggestions were similar. Like, I mean, small little tweaks that would have made the ad more realistic. I did not try to make any sweeping changes. The way they treated me was not so nice.”

Let me guess. Like she’s a pretty object to be ogled and dressed without any substance. If they had bothered to have one conversation with Emilie, they would have learned that was not the case.

“I’m sure there will be other opportunities for you to have your voice heard.”

“I guess. I am never really listened to.” She casts her face downward, curling her green fingernails into her palms.

“Don’t you make any suggestions to your photographers?”

“Oh no. My Agency warned me against speaking up against photographers. Unless, of course, they are making improper photos.”

I block the vision of possible improper photos and turn on my blinker for the parking deck. It’s probably a good idea she’s not driving as it appears to be a maze of tight twists and turns. Although, I’m sure she would’ve handled it and then been excited that she did.

“I would think the photographers and others would want your input. After all, you’re the world’s top model. With all your experience, you deserve to be heard.”

In a small voice, Emilie replies, “I think so, too.”

This is the first I’ve seen that she’s not as excited with her profession as I believed her to be. I park in an empty space and shut off the Jeep. Twisting to her from the driver’s side, I ask, “Do you still like being a model?”

Her eyes get big. “It is what I do, who I am.”

Her answer leaves me cold. “You are half-right. It is what you do. Not who you are.”

She shakes her head as if she does not understand my words. Perhaps she doesn’t. I clarify, “You’re more than a model, Emilie. You have so much to offer.”

She huffs out a laugh. “I am a model who is dabbling in television commercials and movies. I do not want to be transitioned out of magazines and catwalks too soon.”

I roll my eyes. What a crock of shit. But judging from her very being, she believes her words to her core. I need to make her see what I see in her. No. What the whole world sees.

“Don’t sell yourself short. With all your experience comes quite a bit of learning what works and what doesn’t. You should feel comfortable expressing your opinions.”

Her hand flies up to her hair and she tucks it behind her ear. “If I want to keep my reputation and keep landing jobs, I need to be quiet.”

“Cole never kept his mouth shut if they wanted him to do things he didn’t want to.”

“Oh really? Like date me for the benefit of the media?”

Damn. She has a point. Slapping my hand against my thigh, I reply, “You got me there. But he always had a reason. I just want you to be sure you understand your reasons. Now, we’re here at your lawyer’s office. All ready?”

“Oui. I have the Agency’s contract right here. I want to see if I might be able to have more control over my schedule. I have been traveling so much and I would like to be able to have more say over that aspect of my career. I told Stacy and Monsieur Price that I will be in Las Vegas this weekend for Rose’s shower and they put that down on the calendar. I have missed too many important events over the past ten years, so I want to take this teensy bit of control for myself.”

Since it doesn’t sound like she’s stood up for herself before, I encourage her. “Sounds reasonable.” Missing events is my specialty, blaming work commitments my fallback. Usually, that’s not the real reason I was absent, though. But for Emilie, she clearly needs to be with her family and friends.

We walk toward the elevators. “Ready?”

She stops and turns to me. “Would you want to come with me to my meeting?”

A pit turns in my stomach. This crosses the line from professional to very personal. “I have faith that you can handle yourself in there. How about I escort you inside and wait in reception? I’ll be your pretend bodyguard again.”

She giggles. I love that sound, especially given how unhappy she’s just been. “For a ‘pretend bodyguard,’ you sure do look the part.”

“Yeah, well,” I stammer, sliding my sunglasses onto my face. “I’ll need my chauffeur to drive me back.”

She bumps me with her shoulder. “I can do that.”

I open the door to a small room where the elevators are situated and motion for her to push the call button. Entering the car, we’re the only two in the relatively small space filled with typical nondescript music. The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, with a brass railing around all three sides. Emilie hits the button for the seventh floor.

The elevator whirs upward and stops on the first floor, where a group of seven people enter. Due to the size of the elevator car, Emilie moves closer to me. Our eyes meet and she smiles at me, which I can’t help but return. When we stop again at the mezzanine level, four more people squeeze in. Now, Emilie’s plastered against my side. The scent of lavender drifts upward and I inhale the intoxicating air. Damn. Keep it professional, buddy.

When the woman next to Emilie maneuvers her extra-large purse in front of her, Emilie’s pushed flat against me. Instinctively, I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

“Sorry,” the woman offers, waving what appears to be an ID card in Emilie’s direction. She does a double-take. “Hey, aren’t you that model? Emilie Dubois?” All of the other passengers in the car turn to gawk.

My need to protect her radiates from each of my pores. Pulling her tighter to my side, I respond before she can. “She gets that all the time.” I smile at the group. “I’m a lucky guy.” I kiss Emilie’s forehead. Only I can hear her slight giggle.

One of the men in the car says, “Sure are,” while the sound of awkward laughter overrides the elevator music. The woman with the ID card simply says, “You could be her doppelganger.”

Emilie shrugs. “I wish,” she says in perfect English. My mouth falls open. I mouth “where’s your accent?”—to which she winks. Winks.

The door opens at the fifth floor and most of the passengers disembark. Of course, ID lady is still on, so I keep my arm around Emilie. For her part, Emilie’s arm snakes out and wraps around my waist, laughter in her eyes. Minx.

Finally, the door opens on the seventh floor, and we exit as one unit. As soon as the doors close, we both start to laugh. “Hey,” I repeat, “aren’t you that model?”

She flips her hair. “Oh, I do not know. Seems to be a pretty hard career choice. I prefer the role as your girlfriend.”

With that, she dons her supermodel mask and floats into the reception area. It takes me a few moments to collect myself after that gut-punch. Once I’m sure I have myself back under control, I take a seat opposite her to await her attorney. I have to nip this in the bud. But, am I already too late?

She’s scribbling into a notebook. When she catches me looking, she explains, “I want to make sure I do not forget to tell my attorney everything.”

An older man in a power suit accompanied by a younger man and woman stride down the hall toward us. “Looks like here’s your chance. I’ll wait for you out here. Good luck.”

She stands and gathers her things while I remain in the background. Where I should be. Where I belong. After greeting them, the now-quartet starts walking down another corridor when Emilie turns on her heel and rushes back to me.

She kisses both of my cheeks, whispering, “Merci. That is for my luck.” And then she’s gone.

I spend the next hour convincing myself to step away from her. Reminding myself of my inner demons waiting to be unleashed. It was so easy when we were in Rio. I was her hired muscle and she was my client. I settled into that role and didn’t deviate. On the plane ride back, however, I started to feel things I shouldn’t. Again.

Even in the elevator when I gave the phony story covering her identity, everyone believed me—because why would a supermodel like her be with a nobody like me? It’s as it should be. She should be with someone like her former boyfriend, Rinaldo—they sure looked like they went together.

Still…she’s my friend. She may have been sculpted for the cameras, but I’m not as certain as I was before that she’s passionate about her job. Hopefully this attorney will be able to renegotiate better terms for her.

That’s what I would want for any of my friends.

Yeah, right. Friends don’t kiss each other on crowded dance floors, nor reach out for their comfort after having a nightmare. I need to focus on getting my own life in check. And fast. To do just that, I call Zak.

I dive right to the meat. “So, the Summer Competition at Complete is this weekend. Are you looking forward to meeting everyone?”

“Yeah, I can’t wait. I’m so ready to start this new gig.”

“I’m ready to dive in, too. I need to get my hands around everything there.” It will keep them from wandering around a certain French supermodel.

“Like they were around Emilie Dubois when you were in Rio? How’d that go?”

I can almost see his eyebrows wiggling. “One-track mind much? For the record, my hands were not around her.” Well, sometimes….

“Then you need to return your man card, W.”

I shake my head. Better redirect his fertile imagination. “Did you work on the schedules?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice what you just did there. I’ll let it slide this time. And to answer your question, I’ve been playing around with them. How’s the website upgrade coming along?”

We talk shop for a while, agreeing on action items and our plans to attend the Summer Competition this weekend, before ending the call. I stare out the windows and try to bring my disjointed emotions to heel.

A commotion diverts my attention. Emilie’s gliding down the hallway, as per usual, surrounded by a flock of seven attorneys. Weren’t there only three before?

Sliding my cell in my pocket, I stand as they approach the reception area. Emilie’s all smiles, shaking hands with each attorney in turn. When they leave, she turns bright eyes to mine. My cock responds. So much for shutting down my feelings for her. At least I’ll never act on them again.

“I take it the meeting went well?”

“Oui, so well. They took down all my notes and made comments on my current contract. I told them to stay within reason so I do not upset the Agency too much, and they stressed that they will not. But, I will have much more control over my calendar in this version.”

“That’s wonderful.” Seems like plain common sense. How much has the Agency taken advantage of her good nature over the years?

As we enter an empty elevator cab, her heel catches in the gap and she pitches forward. Without thinking, I scoop her into my arms. “I’ve got you.” I chuckle. “You are human after all.”

“Oui,” she responds on an inhale.

Her lavender scent permeates the tight quarters. When her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip, I suck in my breath. The very air around us has morphed from unfocused dismay to an entirely different type of nervous energy.

Demanding.

Undeniable.

I dip my lips toward hers, barely having to lean down because of her height. Her lips meet mine. Soft. So soft. Her hands glide up around my neck, settling in my hair.

We’re not in a club with throbbing music and a light show, bodies all around gyrating to the beat. It’s just us in an elevator with elevator music, yet I’ve never been this turned on. I deepen the kiss, tracing her lips with my tongue. My hands leave her face in favor of skimming down her sides, landing just above her ass.

I direct us two steps so that her back contacts the wall. Leaning forward, I erase any space between us. Clutching my hair, she shifts her legs apart slightly. My straining erection surges forward.

Our breaths come in harsh pants.

She moans on an intake of air.

A ping joins the soundtrack, and I tilt my hips forward in response. I cannot get enough of this woman.

The elevator jars to a halt. Seconds later, the doors open.

Reality slaps me upside the head with the rush of warmer air. What the fuck are you doing? I just said never again.

I disentangle myself and step back. “After,” I clear my throat and repeat, “After you.”

Cheeks flushed, her fingers fly to her lips, a smile dancing on them. “I knew we are right for each other.”

She takes a couple of steps and turns around, catching me adjusting myself. A full-fledged smile lights up her face as she extends her hand for me to take. Or for her to help me out, I’m not sure which. Doesn’t matter. I’m not taking her up on either. Instead, I fish out the keys and hand them to her.

Clearing my throat, I remind her, “You promised to be my chauffer.” I motion for her to precede me to the Jeep, which includes a bouncy gait I’ve never seen from her before. Great. After that kiss, how am I going to convince her I’m not into her? How am I going to convince myself?

As we reach the vehicle, her phone rings. With a bubbly “Bonjour!” she answers the call.

Her lilting French accent reaches my ears and twists around my heart. I rub my chest to erase the effect.

She stops short. “What?” She’s silent while the person on the other end of the phone speaks. Her head whips from side to side. “No! No, no, no.”