Not Just A Pretty Face

21. Gideon

“Home again,” I sighed to myself as I unlocked the front door. I didn’t quite know why, but sometimes I talked to myself on those rare moments when I was home alone and not entertaining VIPs.

Probably because it made it a little less weird and lonely.

I had a penthouse overlooking the best views of the city, a huge bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, all the luxuries I’d ever dreamed of while working my way up as a model one scrap at a time…

But I didn’t have anyone to share it with anymore.

As much as I loathed Alex now, I missed him in some ways because of the holes he’d left in my domestic life.

The dishes he’d picked were all gone. The photos he had put up of the two of us -- the lies designed to make me think we had more of a bond than we really had -- they were gone. Hell, the little homey touches like outdoor living magazines amongst the fashion spreads on the coffee table -- they were gone, too.

“It’s not like I mind a model apartment. Showroom style never gets old.”

Not quite true. I had someone in every two years or so to redo the apartment in more modern textures and finishings, but the changes were always gradual.

I uncorked a bottle of wine to pour myself a glass, then checked my fridge. The chef stopped by every week to freeze or refrigerate a week’s worth of meals for me to eat at my leisure, which worked much better than trying to coordinate his visits with me being home.

“Asparagus risotto and glazed tofu steaks? Oh, yeah,” I approved, taking out the dish and popping it into the oven to follow the cooking directions.

While I waited for it to heat up, I checked my phone. The party tonight was going to be insane. It was some celebration of an anniversary issue of some magazine. Someone had told me there was more than booze passed around now between the models and professionals.

I didn’t know if that meant sex or drugs, but either way, I was fine saying no. Neither was my style.

“Oh, but there’ll be drama tonight.” I grinned to myself at the kind of antics that tended to crop up toward the end of any night out, then refilled my wine glass.

Then, I plugged my phone into the house speakers to give myself a background soundtrack for my dinner. I liked classical music. I heard enough thumping pop and runway music as part of my job.

I hummed along to it, swaying on the spot as I tried to ignore the memory of Alex’s arms slipping around my waist from behind, his head on my shoulder as we waited for dinner to heat up.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”

In reality, I had no trouble getting offers… I was just picky about which ones I accepted.

I took my plate out of the oven and caught myself wondering whether Leonel liked asparagus.

* * *

“You should have seen this guy when he was your age.”

I shoved Paul, then tried to take his cocktail away. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink if you’re going to tell old stories…”

He laughed, holding his drink up and away from me. He didn’t remember to account for the fact that I was taller -- he had never been tall enough to walk the runway himself.

I plucked the drink out of his hand, then sipped it before handing it back. “Fine. But don’t talk like I’m decades older.”

He was grinning at Hunter, one of the models I was ambivalent about. He had natural flair, but once he was done on the runway, I wasn’t convinced he’d adapt well to print.