Then, in a scene so slow-mo it could be ripped from a hair commercial, Willow emerges, accepting the driver’s hand with the grace of a Disney princess stepping off her pumpkin carriage.
Two others exit the vehicle after her. One dressed in jeans hauls what looks to be lighting equipment while the other, also in casual wear, wrestles with a large suitcase.
Willow tosses back her hair in a dramatic cascade of waves and flashes us a megawatt smile paired with a dainty flick of her wrist. She’s clad in a tailored skirt and silk blouse ensemble worthy of a First Lady. She looks beautiful. Meanwhile I’m a sweaty mess after sprinting here from the subway.
Beside me, Connor makes a low sound in his throat, maybe somewhere between an annoyed growl and a primal grunt of attraction. Likely both.
Willow sashays toward us, laughing with her entourage. She seems oblivious to our waiting. Or is pretending exceptionally well.
The murderous waves rolling off Connor are palpable as Willow takes an eternity to cover ten feet in her stiletto hooves.
“You’re late,” he grits out as she finally reaches us.
Her surprise at his anger is comical. “Oh, just by a few minutes! Got held up,” she titters, going in to wrap her arms around him.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she purrs, whispering god knows what into his ear. Then she plants a lingering kiss on his cheek, leaving behind a lipstick stamp as if to visibly stake her claim.
I tamp down a flare of annoyance. I don’t have time for her to bat her lashes and wrap Connor around her French manicure. We have a shoot to do.
She turns my way and gives my cheek an air-kiss, surrounding me with a whiff of her rose-scented perfume.
“Why don’t we get started with the shoot?” I suggest loudly, forcing cheerfulness. Inside, I’m imagining a world where it’s socially acceptable to throttle her for swanning in late without a hint of apology. But she’s the client, so she gets to be the diva, and I get to pretend like I’m totally cool with it.
I wonder how much they “talk” outside of these staged events.
Sure, there’s some spark there, if their little rendezvous at the charity event is anything to go by.
No doubt they’re both insanely hot creatures. But there’s also an obvious vibe mismatch. She’s twenty-four going on sixteen, all whimsical princess vibes, while Connor’s got that “been there, done that, bought the company” air of a mid-thirties man who’s seen a thing or two and shoved his cock in the various holes of many attractive women. There isn’t a massive age gap numerically but with these two, it feels like it’s stretching wider.
Maybe that’s the appeal—he likes the notion of settling down with the virginal type. I can totally see him following theScrew then marry the never screwedplaybook. Cliché.
There was this one psych class I took—it talked about why powerful alpha dudes are into the whole damsel in distress act. Supposedly it relates to recapturing a sense of innocence and purity they lack. Or ensuring their spawn don’t turn out equally sociopathic.
Best find a type like Willow who can whip up a nurturing palace for mini Connors complete with ass-kissing staff, a white picket fence, and some swans in the pond.
I have to wonder what common ground they share, though. Do they dive into deep discussions on politics, philosophy, the meaning of life? Or just bask silently in each other’s flawless aesthetics?
Maybe their main “conversation” happens between the sheets.
One of Willow’s assistants begins setting up what looks like a full-fledged Hollywood set, complete with fancy ring lights. The other pops open a suitcase overflowing with makeup and dusts Willow’s already perfect face.
I stare in confusion. “Willow, our photographer Jacob already has professional equipment set up. You didn’t need to bring anything extra.”
She laughs it off, like I just suggested using a flip phone to snap her pictures. “All my Insta shoots require these lights. I wouldn’t dream of posting without my team!”
Hold up.
Are these two always on standby to light and powder every “spontaneous” moment in her life?
Her feed’s full of those “oh, just whipped up this little smoothie” posts, but who knew it was an honest-to-god production?
Actually, why am I surprised?
“Your face is perfect, Willow,” Connor says sternly, like a father scolding his child. “As is the rest of you. Now let’s get this damn shoot over with.”
Jacob takes charge, positioning them for their first pose. He molds Willow into Connor’s arms, fitting her curves against him as if he’s a sexy mannequin. He adjusts Connor’s strong arms around her waist, just short of indecent.
“Great!” I chime, overly bright. And they do look great. How amazing. This couldn’t be going better.
