Jesus, it was only my second day in the office and I was expected to be helpful? Even if I had had the experience I’d claimed, surely it would have taken longer just to settle in.

Gideon had sent me off to model without a second thought. Maybe Hayden hadn’t been sucking up to me just to get my money.

He was a good model.

I had always known I had the right attitude, that I could learn to pose and move like the best of them, but the look? That was intangible, impossible to fairly assess when I knew my own face better than any stupid photographer.

This guy was a real asshole. I was starting to see why he’d driven the last model off.

“Move that way.”

The layered t-shirt under a long-sleeved cotton button-up shirt was comfortable, but the jeans Raymond had quickly chosen for me with agreement from two other guys fussing over my hair and face… they were a little tighter than I was used to.

I didn’t mind showing off my package, but I wasn’t going to be able to move my hip the way Clive was telling me to.

“Just move your foot backward.”

“I can’t.” I had another condition I hadn’t told anyone about: I didn’t have a name for it, but my joints were oddly flexible and sometimes loose. If I moved my foot any further back, with the tight pressure around my hipbone, it was going to pop my hip right out of place.

The flexibility was nice, but dislocating a hip fucking sucked.

Unless it was for a really great lay, and Clive was nothing like that.

“I can’t photograph you if you won’t do what I tell you to.”

He was a short, stocky guy -- the kind of generic-looking ugly-ass dude they hired for “str8 boy” porn. He sweated under the intense light shining into my face from one side, and he had a twitchy hand around his camera body.

And he refused to touch me, like the gay would wipe off on him. I disliked him on principle.

I made a point of brushing against him, moving into his hand when he moved my arm around or tried to pull me into another angle.

Every time, his lip would curl or he’d pull back like he’d been jolted. Once, he wiped his hand off on his jeans.

For that alone, I was going to be a real asshole now.

“Fine, then turn that way.”

“Which way?”

“That way.”

I turned the wrong way, tilting my head at a damn good angle. It would look better than the angle Clive had asked for.

He saw what I’d done. Instead of swallowing his pride and taking the photo being offered to him on a silver platter, he snorted and stepped forward. No doubt he was going to shove me the other way.

Jesus. It hadn’t just been Hayden who’s fond of pushing guys around, then. I pulled my arm away from Clive’s grip before he could grab it, glaring at him, then turned away from him to let him get the shot he wanted. I turned my toes in, though.

“Foot out.”

I moved my foot a few inches over.

“Toes out. Gideon, sort out your shitty models before I come in next.”

“Of course.” That was Gideon’s smooth voice, but he didn’t sound the slightest bit miffed… or even apologetic.

I glanced over my shoulder, resisting the temptation to moon Clive instead. I shifted my toes out, staring straight into the camera with hooded eyes as I braced my hands on the box in front of me. My shirt was riding up my back, exposing my smooth lower back.

Even without a day’s professional experience -- in an agency, rather than a pro’s living room with my boyfriend watching from the couch like a jealous gargoyle -- I was fucking better than this Clive guy.

I was a lot better than they all wanted to admit. Too bad for them. I didn’t care what anyone else thought. I’d spent hours looking in the mirror, practicing my angles, learning my face and body and the way I could move them both to seduce the camera.

I’d just never thought the industry would agree with my assessment of myself as both extremely fuckable and photogenic. Hayden’s words still rang in my ears.

“I was only humoring you.”

Now that I’d had the goddamn CEO of Prestige tell me I should be on a runway? And watching me in front of the camera?

My ego had never swollen more, and I’d damn well earned it.

Clive was done. He growled, “I can’t deal with this shit.”

I put on a concerned, clueless expression and cocked my head, turning to face everyone instead. My eyes slowly adjusted from the bright light to the shadows around the edge of the room.

“This cocky little shit won’t give me anything useful. I’m done today, Gideon. If I got anything useful, I’ll send you what I’ve got.”

There was a quiet scoff as Raymond, the guy I gathered was in charge of new faces, rubbed his face and pushed open the door to the studio to hold it for Clive.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Gideon told them both. “Raymond, make some calls. I’m sure we can find someone to come in.”

Clive scoffed at the news that he was being replaced. “And good luck to him.” He stormed out through the door, still clutching his camera like he was bringing it to the principal’s attention.

I kicked out a foot and sat on the box, spreading my hands out behind myself.

Raymond gestured to Gideon. “Coming?”

But Gideon’s eyes were fixed on me. “No. I need a word with Leo here. Can you give us a photographer…” He trailed off, glancing at his watch. “In thirty minutes?”

“Thirty?” Raymond’s shoulders sank with relief. “Yeah, I can do thirty. I was expecting fifteen. I could maybe do--”

“I think we all need to cool off,” Gideon told him firmly. “Thirty.”

Footsteps echoed from nearby as the two guys from earlier who’d helped Raymond with my hair and makeup and wardrobe overheard and obeyed, leaving us in silence.

The door swung shut behind the last of them, and then Gideon was walking slowly across the backdrop draped along the floor. His shiny shoes clicked against the paper.

My heart pounded. I stayed where I was, sprawled on the box.

“You’ll have plenty of time in the spotlight later, Leo.” He gestured toward the changing room.

When I pushed myself up and over toward the doorway, I was keenly aware of Gideon following. He had his hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving me.

The chemistry between us was about to burst into flames. When I stepped into the back room with its comfortable sofa, makeup chair, and wardrobe corner, I heard the doorlock slide into place.

My body burned with desire as I turned to face Gideon, hooking my thumb into the too-tight jeans the agency had put me into while his eyes raked up and down my body.

“Right clothes, right look, wrong photographer. It happens.” His voice was a warm, low rumble.

I lifted my chin. Some small piece of me was glad Gideon wasn’t telling me off. Though I barely knew him, I knew plenty of him. Gideon was a household name. I’d hate to blow off my opinion if he told me I wasn’t a good fit for the agency.

Instead, he pointed toward the chair right behind me.

“Sit.”