Fashion Disaster

Chapter 5

     All my life, I'd always been quite thin. Although I didn't eat entirely... "clean", and had a lot of pizza at least once a week on those late study/movie sessions with Theo, my weight had almost always settled on my thighs or butt; leaving my stomach mostly untouched. 

     But I still awkwardly tried to adjust the top of my two piece, playing with the straps as if hoping it'd suddenly expand. I'd never really worn something so revealing and boldly colored. As soon as I stepped out in my red polka-dotted swimsuit, it was as if a hush had befallen the studio. The nervous talking, the banter between my Grandmother and Adrian... it all seemed to silence considerably. 

     Because all eyes were on me. 

     Grandmother approached me, and though her face often revealed little emotion, I could see a slight twinkle in her eye that couldn't have been from the lights. "You clean up nicely." 

     I flushed, hoping the tremble in my words wouldn't betray my true emotions: my fear. "I'd hope so. They only slathered my face in what feels like every product they owned." 

     She nodded, as if understanding, and motioned for me to get in front of the camera. Show time. Adrian's gaze followed my every movement as I walked to position myself behind him, my shoulders hunched and every nerve inside me buzzing. I couldn't help it. I was so scared, so nervous I felt I might puke. 

     The man behind the camera, who had a heavily-gelled mustache and a deep frown, muttered some words in French. "Adrian, dites-lui de se détendre." 

     Adrian perked at the mention of his name, his eyes tearing away from me to address the photographer. He then nodded; agreeing to something I didn't understand. 

     When he turned back to face me, I felt my cheeks go aflame, his hands grabbing my own. As if noticing my obvious nervousness, he smirked. "Relax, belle." 

     I tried to pry myself from his touch, but for whatever reason—I felt I couldn't move. "My name isn't Belle," I hissed half-heartedly; hoping, praying I could push some of my usual sass into my voice. 

     He chuckled as if he found my protests some kind of joke. "I'm aware, Alice. Belle means beautiful, lovely. You really don't know your French, huh?" 

     What was it about his stare that rendered me so weak in the knees? Why couldn't I push him away, or slap him with some snappy remark?  

     I shrugged, trying to play it casual. "I guess not." 

     My eyes wandered to the ground, and for some reason—they burned with tears of embarrassment. Ugh, could I really not think of anything better to say? I do not need to fuel this man's ego anymore; I need to get control of myself.  

     He tipped my chin up to meet his gaze—his eyes a deep hazel, a fiery rim of orange dancing around the pupil. "Détendez-vous belle," Adrian whispered; voice husky and full of lust. "Relax. Just focus on me." 

     I drew a sharp inhale; startled by the sound of a camera's click, breaking us free from our... moment. He had just staged the perfect scene. Of course. 

     I dared not to move a muscle as they continually took more photos of the same scene, trying, as Adrian had instructed, to focus on him. Him and only him. 

     The sharp, chiseled outline of his cheekbones, his defined nose, and long, dark eyelashes that contrasted his peach skin-tone. The shadow of the lights on his clean-shaven face, the way his lips curved into a smile. 

     And the way his bathing suit—red swim trunks with white accents—matched my own and revealed his body, carefully sculpted and ever so perfect; so much so I couldn't quite hear him calling my name at first.