“Mila, look this way.” The photographer snaps his fingers for me to look in his direction. I’ve been on the set for ten hours now and we’re on my ninth wardrobe change. My feet are starting to throb, and I want nothing more than to go home, but I know that won’t be happening any time soon. It’s back to another hotel. Not that it matters much. My home doesn’t even feel like one. Although I’ve been there for some time, I’ve never had the time to set it up. Instead a designer was sent in and the style didn’t fit me at all. It was done how my mom had told them to do it, so it was more her than me. Her taste is a little richer than mine. I often feel like I’m going to mess something up when I’m there. However, I do love my bed. Nothing beats your own bed.

I turn my head slightly, giving the photographer what he wants. I tilt my head at just the right angle for this lighting. I should know how this works since I’ve been doing it for almost fifteen years. Since some man discovered me, as they say, when I was only five. My mom had been so excited, but I had no idea what was really happening.

This has been my life since then. Jumping from city to city and oftentimes country to country, reminding me once again I’m not even sure what city I’m in at the moment. I think back for a moment, then remember New York. I got in late last night from London. I stifle a yawn and wish I could have a break, but I push on knowing this is the last set for the night. I mindlessly move for the camera. I don’t even have to think about it anymore.

I hope the hotel has late room service, or maybe I can have the driver, Ben, stop for something, but it’s doubtful I could find something from a fast food place that’s healthy. But this is New York. I’m sure I can find something to order. I think sleep might win out tonight, though. I may be asleep before any food gets to me.

The agency might be great about making sure I have most things I need, but food isn't one of them. I’m not sure they would count it as a necessity in life, especially in my line of work.

“That’s a wrap,” the photographer says. Everyone starts clapping and I force a polite smile on my face and thank everyone. I don’t want to be rude just because I’m tired and hungry. Long ago I told myself I’d never be like most of the other models I’d met over the years who were demanding and rude. I used to hate when my mom would come with me on shoots, because she could be those things. At around age fourteen I started going on my own, but always with a bodyguard.

I make my way back towards my dressing room, letting free the yawn I’ve been holding in. When I open the door, I freeze when I see a man standing in my dressing room. His back is to me and his size is more than intimidating. His black shirt is tight against his broad back. My eyes drop even lower to his ass, and my lips go dry. I lick them as my eyes roam over his back and down his legs, thinking about how every thick inch of him is roped with muscle. It’s clear this man is fit and works out, but I’m guessing he’s not another model, because most male models are lean and cut like swimmers and runners. This man is built is more like a football player.

He turns, and his dark eyes meet mine, making my breath catch as they narrow on me. His hair is cut short, almost buzzed, but what really catches my eye is the long scar that runs down the right side of his face. It cuts through his eyebrow, barely missing his eye, and continues down his cheek, ending at his jaw. It’s not a clean cut. It's jagged, but the scar looks to be older since it’s not red and angry.

I snap my eyes from his face, realizing that I’m staring at him. I take a step back but run into my dressing room door and it’s then I realize I’m alone in a room with a man I don’t know. A man who is likely three times my size. He had to have been let in here, I reassure myself. The studio has a ton of security, and visitors have to pass through a number of checks before they’re even allowed on set.

When I glance up through my eyelashes I see this time it’s him whose eyes are roaming over my body. I watch his jaw go tight and a flash of anger crosses his face.

“Got any clothes?” His words come out deep, like he hasn't talked in days. It’s then I remember I’m only in a bra and panties. Normally I wouldn't care, but a blush hits me hard and I know my fair skin is showing the tint of it.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, making no move to cover up. I think I left my robe outside. Being half dressed is something I’m used to. Hell, when you do runway shows sometimes you have to dress and undress in a room full of people who are doing the same.

I’ve never been shy about my body, but for some reason I’m wondering what he thinks of it. I tuck my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit of mine when I’m not sure what to say.

He mutters something I don’t catch before walking over to my bag on the small sofa in the corner of the room. He reaches inside, pulls out my shirt, then walks over and slides it over my head. I stand there shocked. Next, he drops to his knees, holding out my jean shorts for me to step into. I’m not sure what else to do. I don't think this is a man who is used to being told no. My breath hitches as he pulls them up my legs and his rough thumb drags along my skin.

“Thanks?” I whisper. I’m not sure what else to say as I look up at him towering over me. I’m short for a model. Most are at least five feet ten, whereas I’m only five feet five. It’s never been much of an issue for me. I had a name for myself before I was even thirteen, so it wasn't a fight to get jobs. The only downside to my shortness is they always put me in the highest of heels to try and make up for it. I’m used to people towering over me, but this man is different. He’s well over a foot taller than me. I have to tilt my head all the way back to look up at him.

“I’m your new bodyguard.” The man’s deep voice rolls over my skin, making me wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.

“Oh.” My eyebrows draw together, making me wonder what happened to Ben. “But Ben—”

“Has resigned,” he says, cutting me off.

“Oh.” My shoulders drop. I was only starting to get used to Ben, and I really liked him. He was nice and talked to me. Over the years I’ve learned bodyguards aren't real talkative. “Let me get my stuff and we’ll head out,” I tell him, walking past him.

“You’re not even going to make sure I’m not lying?” he growls. I freeze before I grab my bag then turn slowly to look at him. That angry look is on his face again. His jaw tics.

“Well, I’m guessing you wouldn't have just said that if you were lying.” I grab my bag and fish out my cell phone. I see I have a text from my agent.

Nora: New bodyguard. He’ll be in your dressing room. Name is Jax Knox. He’s the best.

Jax mumbles a curse.

I slip on my flip-flops. “Ready when you are, Jax,” I tell him, a little shocked with myself for being tart with him. I walk past him throwing open the door. I should have washed my face, but I’ll do it when we get to the hotel, where I’ll fall into the bed. I stop when I see another man standing outside my door. This one isn’t as big as Jax, but he’s still big in his own right.

Where Jax is night, with dark hair, eyes and clothes, this man is all light with blond wavy hair and bright blue eyes. Unlike Jax he shoots me a big smile. “Ma'am.” He nods, and I notice he has a southern drawl to his words.

“Hi,” I respond, wondering who he is.

“Move, Rye,” Jax barks from behind me, making me jump.

The blond man holds his hands up, only smiling even bigger. “Sorry, boss man.” Rye shoots me a wink that causes Jax to growl again, making goosebumps break out across my skin. I can feel the heat of his big body behind me.

“He’s your other guard,” Jax informs me. He motions for me to follow Rye. “He covers the front and I stick with you.” I glance over my shoulder at Jax.

“Two guards? Full time?” I ask. The only time I ever have more than one is for big events and we know there are going to be crowds. Normally I only have one.

“Yeah. Things are going to be getting tighter around here,” he informs me as we exit the back door of the studio. Rye holds open a car door for me, and I slide in and over when I see Jax following in after me. I can’t stop myself from glancing over at him. Normally my bodyguard drives. Then I see Rye sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Did something happen?” I pull my bag closer to me. I feel the need to hold on to something, and I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. “Is my mom okay?” I haven't heard from her in a few weeks, which isn't uncommon. She loves to travel and can drop off for weeks at a time. More so if she finds a man she falls madly in love with. That usually lasts a good month until she grows bored of him.

Jax takes me by surprise by taking the bag I’m clinging to from me and placing his big hands over mine in a comforting hold. “Your mother is fine.”

I sag against the seat in relief.

“Relax, you look tired.”

“Isn't that a nice way of saying I look like crap?” I laugh when I hear Rye snicker.

“Don’t think anyone has ever said you looked like crap.” I glance over at Jax, fighting a smile, but I still when I see the look he is giving me. It’s heated and filled with desire. Normally I would turn and look away from something like that. I’m used to the looks I get, but for some reason I find myself pushing for more.

“And what would you say I look like?”

“Like you need to eat and get some rest.” With that, the vibe I was feeling from Jax drops away. I turn my body toward the window. I feel embarrassed because I thought he might call me pretty, or even beautiful, which is silly. I get called that daily, but for some reason I wanted to hear it from him.

Maybe I read his look wrong. It’s not like I’m great with men. I’ve never really dated, unless you count the dates that are set up by the agency for publicity, but they weren't really even dates. Most the time I got set up with jerks with big egos who thought they were the next big thing. I would have to smile and be polite, wanting nothing more than to get out of whatever event or restaurant we were at.

Jax moves, and I pause when his breath hits my ear. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, but you don’t need me to tell you that,” he whispers. His hands tighten over mine. “I just know you need rest and food. That’s what I’m worried about right now.”

I look back at him, and his eyes are lock with mine. This is the first time I’ve seen his face soft. Concern shows in his face. “You’re right,” I admit. I realize that he actually noticed that. No one has ever said that to me before. They have never been concerned about me eating and sleeping. I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. His body freezes, but he doesn't tell me to move. I let my eyes fall closed, breathing in his rich, woodsy smell while I think to myself that maybe I can get a few minutes’ sleep before we get to the hotel.