Chapter 18
Carla
I paced my office, watching a tiny Finch bathe itself in the bird bath in the lush, tropical atrium outside my floor to ceiling windows. It was mid-afternoon, the sun glistening off the tiny bird’s feathers, but I hardly noticed as I paced a tread into the hardwood floor beneath my sensible heels.
Another alert pinged on my laptop as I groaned silently, willing Kellan to just stop—to just leave me alone. He’d been radio silent for days after I’d kicked him out of my apartment, but only after firing his no good, sexy, hard bodied, lying, cheating, hustling tight ass. Not a word, not a text, not a phone call, not a bouquet of flowers, not a teddy bear and balloon basket delivered to my door in all that time.
And now, suddenly, he’s blowing up my text thread? IM’ing me on my laptop? I knew what it was about, of course. I didn’t need Kellan to tell me, let alone brag to me, about his first official turn on the catwalk as one of Florida Faces’ newest models.
I’d heard about the Platinum Pullover show for weeks now. I’d known the high-priced, high-fashion yoga jacket line was scouting modeling agencies to staff their next catwalk show—right on the beach, no less—and had even sent some of my best models up for a shot.
No dice. Then, just like that, Florida Faces gets the account. And who do they choose to headline the account? None other than Kellan Montclair! I knew the show was today. I knew it was just about time to get started. I knew the whole town of South Beach was abuzz, local magazines and newspapers and paparazzi stalking the beach to see which designers, celebrities, rappers and movie stars might show up in the front row.
Did he think I didn’t know?
Did he want to torture me?
Brag? Had I been that incredibly, pig-headedly, completely and utterly dead wrong about him?
Another ping and I gave up. “Fine! Fuck!” I blurted, no one around in the empty office to hear as I ignored the little showering finch and turned toward my desk to sink into my chair and respond to his IM.
I grunted, not surprised to find that he hadn’t sent a flood of heart shaped emoticons or even so much as a note, just the same link—two dozen times—to the live feed of the Platinum Pullover show, moments away from beginning.
“Is he for real?” I grumbled aloud, reaching into the dorm size fridge beneath my desk for a beer. Sure, it was only three in the afternoon. Sure, I was at work. Sure, I was talking to myself. This is what Kellan had driven me to!
At least, that’s what I told myself as I twisted the cap, took a quite unladylike gulp and clicked the damn link. Might as well drive the stake in all the way, I reasoned, and kill whatever feelings I had left for Kellan. And of course I had them all. Of course I did.
What we’d shared went well beyond sex, or even his jaw dropping physical beauty. He’d been nothing but kind to me from day one, gentle and loving, affectionate and thoughtful, wining me, dining me, sexing me into a state of bliss and I supposed, denial.
I should have known it was too good to be true, right from the start. Why did he think I’d never dated models in the past? This very reason, I mused, the video finally buffering to reveal a chaotic scene at a makeshift stage set up a mere few blocks away.
The beach had been transformed into a red carpet affair, a slightly elevated catwalk branching from a modernistic stage filled with blinking lights and throbbing house music. The video was clear and tight, like everything Platinum Pullovers did, and in the front row of VIPs I saw two supermodels, a movie star, a famous chef and, of course, every local designer worth mentioning.
I fumed with jealousy and rage, hate-watching as I chugged my beer and wondered why he was doing this to me. My Kellan, my sweet Kellan, why was he torturing me so? It wasn’t bad enough he’d lied to me, but to hook up with Selena? Knowing what she’d done to me? It was like shoving two daggers into my heart, then twisting them until there was nothing left.
“Trust me,” I murmured in my empty office, to my glowing 24-inch computer monitor. “After this, Kellan Montclair, we are officially through.”
As if he could hear me, the show began and Kellan burst through glittery silver curtains, his body oiled and glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. His chest was bare beneath a metallic black and white striped pullover, hood up, sunglasses on, looking fierce and fabulous and making my heart pound even more just viewing him on a computer screen.
I was about to turn the feed off, to shut my laptop altogether, finish my beer, leave the office, maybe go sit in a nice, cold movie theater somewhere, big bag of popcorn on my lap—screw the carbs!—and cry myself silly through a double feature of cheesy chick flicks.
But then Kellan did something no model, no matter how beautiful, is supposed to do. He paused at the end of the catwalk and bowed. The crowd murmured as other models paused behind him. Then Kellan whipped off his pullover, turned it inside out to the white, billow lining and held it up between two fists like a banner.
It was hard to concentrate on the words scrawled across it—Kellan’s bare chest could be quite distracting, even if he was a monumental cad—but then he straightened it out and, apparently, seemed to point it right at the camera covering the live feed.
I snorted, setting my beer down to clap my hands over my mouth and willing the soft, damp tears to stop flowing down my face. “Florida Faces Sucks!” it said. He held it high overhead, grinning beneath it as if just for me. And then, as if finished with his victory lap, he tossed it into the audience, turned around, flicked off the rest of the models before turning once more, leaping off the cat walk into the sand below.
I chuckled, leaving the office immediately and racing back to my apartment, quick as my little feet could carry me. After all, I only had a few blocks head start on him. I’d better hurry if I was to welcome him home good and proper!