Unexpected

Part 53

Today is our first (and maybe only) magazine photoshoot. I've flipped through fashion magazines before, and frankly, I'm uneasy. I wouldn't wear the majority of the clothes that stylists put on models. I hope I won't have to pretend to like them. WGM is tagging along.

First I spend what feels like hours in hair and makeup. Having never taken so long before, I'm thankful when Sangil is done with his styling and comes sits beside me. He leans on the counter and gazes at me as they put the finishing touches on my face.

"You look beautiful."

"More beautiful than usual?"

He shakes his head. "But certainly different than usual."

"I feel different than usual."

In a couple minutes the makeup artist tells me she's done, and I look in the mirror. They must be going for sexy, with bold red lips and heavy eyeliner. My hair looks artfully tousled, like I just woke up. (Except my hair is very well behaved in real life and falls straight down around my face in the morning.) I wonder what we're going to wear. When they bring out the first outfit I almost sigh with relief. It's sexy, but not weird.

"See you in a bit," I tell Sangil as we go our separate ways. The stylist helps me slip into the red dress, since it's a tight squeeze. I glance down at my cleavage.

"May I ask a sensitive question?" The stylist is hesitant.

"Sure. I'm used to those." You have no idea how many sensitive questions I get asked during interviews.

"Are those real?" She gestures to my chest.

I smile. I've heard the rumors. "Yes. Besides genetics, I think they grew this big because I have well developed pectoral muscles underneath. When they were growing, I was training already. You know that rowing type of exercise machine? Yeah, I think that made them explode." My chest isn't humongous, but it is larger than average. Usually it's not noticeable because I wear sports bras during the race weekends. Today, though, they are out on display.

The makeup artist is called to cover up a few bruises on my legs. I'm grateful that the bruises from my crash have faded, or else they would have had a few on my torso from the six point harness to cover up. While they didn't look pretty, I did have them photographed so I can have a physical reminder of my first Formula One crash. They give me earrings and a pendant that nestles precisely into my cleavage. I discretely take a breath mint out of my purse and pop it in my mouth. I just know we're going to be in extremely close proximity to each other.

After I put on a pair of very high heels I totter out to the studio. Sangil is waiting for me. His eyes widen and he looks away, probably so he doesn't get caught staring on camera. I stare myself. He looks delicious in dress slacks and a button down shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a skinny necktie.

The photographer shows some pictures of what he wants, and I mutter under my breath, "Have you been watching Fifty Shades of Grey?" It's not as bad as that, but my brain jumped from A to B and ended up at Z pretty quick. After several pictures of us individually I'm leaning back against the wall, with my hands over my head. Sangil holds my wrists and stands in front of me. As we take more photos Sangil is told to get closer. In my heels we're the same height, and I feel myself blush as his face gets within centimeters of mine. I knew that breath mint was a good idea.

"Now clasp your hands together," calls the photographer.

I unfurl my loose fists as Sangil slides his hands up from my wrists and we intertwine our fingers together. I smile as I look into his eyes, but after a few shots I'm told to act more serious. The photographer gives me lots of instructions, which is understandable. I haven't done a photo shoot before, unless you count the ones for F1, but they weren't this serious. I look down, to the side, close my eyes. Then we're told to kiss.