“Hold that pose,” Wade directs while snapping photos.

I rest my head against the palm tree, focusing on maintaining my balance in the sand and keeping my grumbling stomach still. When was the last time I ate? Yogurt for breakfast in my room before the sun came up? How many hours ago was that?

“Pull the sunglasses slightly down your nose, Em.”

Obediently, I lift my right arm—closest to the camera—and let my fingers, with their freshly painted nails, land on the frame. Very slowly, I pull the sunglasses down my nose and aim my focus on the lens. And hold.

“Perfect! Now turn your head toward the ocean and completely remove the glasses.”

I do as I am told, my eyes landing on the half dozen crew members who are eating or drinking while watching the shoot. My stomach rumbles but the sound of breaking waves juxtaposed against Classic Rock drowns out my body’s protest. The soundtrack reminds me of my driving lessons with Wills and I search the beach for a sign of him. He is here somewhere.

“What’s that sour look for, Em? C’mon, give me your signature sexy pout.”

I better stay focused. I need to do my job well or someone else—Geonna Broz—gladly will do it for me. Must keep my reputation sparkling.

Wade stops taking photos and examines the screen on his camera. I take the moment to reposition my back against the ever-so-uncomfortable palm tree. He focuses the lens back on me. “Gimme some love over here, Emilie.”

Concentrer. I focus on the waves for inspiration when Wills crosses my line of vision. He has a cup in his hand and brings it to his lips. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows is so masculine. So sexy. Makes me want to trace it with my tongue.

“Good job. Continue with that.”

Do not mind if I do. Wills eclipses the male models on set here. Or anywhere, for that matter. And I do know he is still interested in me—his kisses at the club prove it. My limbs melt into the palm tree at the memory. His lips were so skillful. Unlike any other kisses. I can still feel his lips on mine, the way they tingled in response. His body is hard planes and bunched muscle, yet he does not strut. No, his face and body are not his sole reason for living, even though they are mighty fine. I admire him so much for trying something new and taking over the gym to honor his sister.

“There’s my sexy Em!”

Wade takes several more shots. My mind continues its foray into all things Wills, even though I have lost sight of him again. His virile grin. His boldly changing careers. How he makes me feel protected. Our interesting conversations. He sees me, not only the outward trappings the world sees. Rather, he used to. Lately, he has pulled away. However, the more he pulls back, the more I want to push forward. If only his inner demons will let him open up.

“Okay, let’s break.”

Pushing away from the hard palm tree at my back—probably leaving permanent indentations in my skin—I gain my balance in the sand and locate the food table. Slipping a thin robe over the shoot’s skimpy white microkini, I make my way to what looks like a platter of barbequed meats. With my mouth watering, I grab a plate and pile some delicious-smelling chicken onto it, with a salad.

I stop at a nearby white plastic table and collapse down into an orange chair, too hungry to even grab a bottle of water. As I devour the well-seasoned chicken—as if I were on Rinaldo’s football team rather than a “demure” model—my eyes explore the oceanfront to look for my once-again-invisible bodyguard.

“Everything okay, Em?” Wade hands me a bottle of water.

“Just hungry,” I respond after I swallow a mouthful of the meat. Opening the bottle, I take a long sip, then hold it up. “Merci.”

After resecuring his ponytail, he scolds, “You should’ve told me you needed a break.” A length of brown hair escapes and flutters in the wind.

“I didn’t want to interrupt the flow.”

My job, as I have been told several times, is to do what the photographer directs and not to cause a scene. Stacy drummed that into my head before my first shoot—and reminds me of it before every new one. Follow directions to stay in demand. I have no desire to set the boat rocking.

While I take another drink, Wade grabs an orange chair, swivels it around in the sand so that the back is facing me and straddles it. He reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, preventing me from picking up the water bottle again. Lowering his voice, he says, “I’m not sure what you were thinking about back there, but you’ve never looked hotter. The magazine’s going to be thrilled to have you grace its cover and the inside spread.”

The way he emphasizes his last word makes my stomach want to reject my lunch. I swallow over my discomfort as Wade squeezes my hand, his eyes burning through my translucent robe. I stifle my urge to recoil, opting instead to shift in my seat and keep my head down.

When I do not react to his touch, he brings his head toward mine. “However, I think I could put an even sexier look on your face.”

I place my hand on his chest and shake my head. “Wade. No.”

“Why not, Em? You’re here. I’m here. I remember the way you used to look at me wearing even less than you are now.” He offers a cocky smile. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I am not interested. I am dating someone.” I cross my ankles to ward off any bad karma for telling a lie. Well, I want to be dating a particular someone. Who should be stepping in to break this up at any second.

Wade’s eyes dart from left to right. “He’s not here with us. His loss.” Before I can react, Wade’s lips crash against mine, his hands sliding down the lapels of my robe.

“No!” I push against his chest and break the unwanted kiss.

“C’mon, Em. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had. Like old times.” He leans forward again.

Sweat breaks out across my brow having nothing at all to do with the Rio heat. As if on its own, my hand smacks Wade across his face and I jump up, toppling my chair.

All activity surrounding the shoot ceases.

Wade shakes his head like a dog, his ponytail swinging. He dons a brash smile in contrast to the red palm print on his cheek. In an overly loud voice, he announces, “I like ‘em feisty.”

The crew resumes their work. Loudly.

Keeping my voice even, I ask, “Are we finished for today?”

His eyes run my entire body but I refuse to react. “No. You’ll be doing a sunset shoot with Val and the guys in a couple of hours.” He motions toward a volleyball net where a bunch of perfectly-sculpted male models jockey for a ball.

“I will go look for Val now.” Quickly, I gather the remnants of my lunch, toss them into the nearby garbage pail and head toward the contemporary beachfront mansion rented for the shoot. On the deck and safely away from the photographer’s wandering clutches, I turn and face the ocean once again. Wills, my non-white knight, appears at the tree line. Where was he minutes ago?

A scowl forms but is wiped clean when I hear an almost-there British accent with a Kenyan undertone float through the building’s open windows. “Emilie Dubois! Is that you? Get your skinny white ass in here!”

Val’s words make me giggle. Raising my hands to my mouth, I yell, “Val! Where are you?”

“Second floor, first door on the left.”

Ignoring instructions to stay within my bodyguard’s eyesight, especially since that did me no good moments before, I turn away from the ocean and race up the steps. I am mad at him anyway. He should have been there to stop Wade.

I shake off my negative feelings when I spot the beautiful model from Nairobi waiting for me at the room’s threshold. She is wearing a daring hot pink monokini that pops against her mocha skin and is holding something in a tall glass with a straw. Knowing her, the clear liquid probably is a Dawa Cocktail, a Kenyan favorite made with vodka, lime juice and honey. She opens her arms and I embrace my friend. Her usual floral fragrance swirls between us. Mingled with vodka. Her teacup puppies yip around my feet, and I bend down to greet them.

“I am so happy you are here,” I say, walking into the sunlit room and closing the door behind me. A double bed has been pushed against the wall. Tables covered with makeup and various brushes take center stage. A side table offers an assortment of drinks. “Wade just put the moves on me.”

“Ugh.”

Parched, I snag a bottle of water. “I know, right?”

“Did you put him in his place?”

Smirking, I open the bottle. “You bet I did.”

She winks. “Can’t mess with Emilie Dubois.” Placing her glass to a table, she opens my robe. “Ooh, I love your teeny bikini.” She twirls around, shakes her barely-covered butt and laughs. “Mine doesn’t even qualify as teeny!”

I grin at her antics, the episode with Wade all but forgotten. “True.”

Val motions toward the window seat covered with plush beige cushions. After another exuberant hug, we sit down. Each of us places a pillow behind us and another in our laps. Her puppies jump up on each side of her. “So tell me,” I begin, “where did you fly in from?”

“I was in Ibiza. Oh my God, girl, the parties were off the chain. Damien, Jake, Kellen, Ian, Dean—everyone was there. Except you, of course.”

“I have not seen them in at least a year.” Those guys are professional partiers, with whom I used to hang out when I was dating Rinaldo. Even though he was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, his role as a football star made him welcome in their club.

After swallowing more of her “go-go juice,” Val says, “They asked about you. Well, Dean did after watching Rinaldo’s team kick some serious British arse on the telly.”

Rinaldo. I turn my head and look out the window, scanning for Wills but not finding him. Those two could not be more dissimilar in looks—Rinaldo with his brown hair and olive complexion, and Wills with his blond hair and blue eyes. Both are driven in their professions, though. Even if I want to shake Wills right now.

When I do not respond, Val continues, “Before I hopped over to Ibiza, I was in Barcelona.”

Where Rinaldo lives. Our eyes meet. “A lot has happened since I dated Rinaldo.”

She shrugs. “If you ask me, he’s still hung up on you. You two drifted apart because your schedules put you on different continents all the time, right? You didn’t have some big blow out.”

It is my turn to shrug.

“He asked about you when I ran into him, even though he was out and about with Geonna—”

Val’s already large eyes widen to the size of saucers and she downs the remainder of her drink. With shaky hands, I put my water bottle on the floor. Finding out that he is with her is a bitter pill. “Are they dating?”

“I think it’s just a PR stunt.”

Rinaldo adores the spotlight, and Geonna certainly brings that. “Have you met her?”

“Yeah. She’s nice in a newbie sort of way.”

I do not want to know her as a human being. It is so much easier for me to compete with her for gigs when she is an abstract. “Has she gotten any of your contracts, too?”

She pets her puppies. “A few. She got the shoot that I was up for in the south of France, which is why I had time to pop over to Ibiza. I considered myself lucky to be able to play instead of work.” She smiles and tilts her glass back again.

My eyebrows raise at her attitude, but I should not be surprised. Val, two years my junior at twenty-three, has always been fun-loving and a live-in-the-moment type of woman. Spending money as soon as it hits her bank account. But still, Geonna is impacting her career—and bottom line—as well. “Don’t you ever worry about the future?”

“Nah. The future will take care of itself. Besides, I’m too busy having fun to worry. C’mon, honey, we have the best life—jetting off to wonderful islands, staying in luxurious places, wearing amazing clothes. Always with hot men, some of whom are straight.” She giggles. “What more could we want?”

Not waiting for me to reply, she continues, “Besides, everyone wants to be us. Did you see that my hashtag was trending on Twitter last week? A whole day! #MochaModelMojo. People posted memes of me strutting the catwalk and out at parties. You were in some of them! You should check it out. Here.” Val picks up her cell phone and shows me her Twitter feed. I do not remember the last time I bothered checking my professional account, which is handled by the Agency. I prefer my private Instagram account, where I can help real people solve real style problems.

Some of the photos she tweeted of us make me laugh. We did have good times. She shows me one from a pool party in Las Vegas, and my smile enlarges. “I am going to be there next weekend.”

“That city is ace for a shoot. I am going to be in Puerto Rico next weekend. Another beach.” She brings her hand to her forehead and sighs dramatically.

I giggle at her theatrics. “Sounds rough, Val. But, no, I am not going to Vegas for work.” I puff up. “I am going to Rose Morgan’s bridal shower. I have been helping with the planning.”

She reels backward. “Oh my goodness, bridal showers are deadly boring, don’t you know that?”

I shake my head. “Not this one. I know about a crazy scavenger hunt the maid of honor planned. It will be fun.”

As I reach for my water bottle, something huge and seriously ugly crawls over my hand. It takes a second for the appearance of a hard outer shell, antenna longer than its head and long, spiny legs to coalesce in my brain as a bug. A huge bug. It has to be at least six inches long.

I start screaming “AAAHHHH!!” just as Val chimes in with, “OOOOHHH MYYYYY GODDDDDD!!!!” Her puppies take one look at the thing and scamper away. Some guard dogs.

Val grabs onto me. Together, we bound off the window seat, still screaming bloody murder.

From somewhere behind me, the door slams open. Wills jumps into the room, his eyes darting everywhere all at once. “Emilie! Are you okay?”

Jumping and shaking my hands—just like Val—I point to the offensive insect. I cannot speak as my vocal chords are otherwise in use. Very loud use.

His head swivels to follow my finger’s path. When his eyes alight on the creature that caused the uproar, the lids close and he takes a deep breath. Turning his head, the light blue dancing in them causes me to shut down my yelling. Next to me, Val stops her screaming on an intake of breath.

Lips pulled tight to hide what I suspect to be a grin, Wills says, “It’s just a bug.”

I swallow to provide moisture to my throat, and reply, “It is not just a bug. It is as large as a brick! And it walked over my hand.” I shake my fingers to illustrate, and Val grabs my hand.

Wills walks to the window. With every step forward he takes, Val and I retreat one. She stoops down and picks up her puppies. When Wills stops and drops to his haunches, his t-shirt rises, revealing a portion of his muscular back. Damn, he is hot—even if I am still mad at him for abandoning me when it came to Wade. Val goes still. Turning my head to look at my friend, she ogles his backside as if he were a vat of Dawa cocktails she wants to dive into.

Before I can process her reaction, a young boy races into the overcharged room carrying what appears to be a cage of some sort. He is trailed by an older woman, perhaps his grandmother or a nanny. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him, mister! He’s harmless.”

As if this scene could not get any more bizarre, all of us adults look at each other. The older woman clears her throat. “He insisted on getting a Titan Beetle as a pet, and his dad couldn’t say no.” The little boy scoops up the bug and puts it into the cage. On their way out the door, he mumbles, “Sorry he got away.”

Wills folds at his waist and starts laughing. Despite how mad I am at him right now, I just know that, unlike the Titan Beetle, I do not want my bodyguard to get away.