I blinked slowly, shocked by his blunt remark. "I am awed by no such thing. Why do you assume that's how I feel?"
Stan was already picking up his clothes from the table and shoving them back on. It was almost painful to watch, like seeing a noble wolf transform into a trembling, frail little dog with bulging eyes.
"Because I know it's true," Stan snapped. "That's what everyone sees when they look at me."
I wanted to challenge him. I wanted to say, 'that's only what you want people to say.' But he seemed sensitive right now and I didn't want to push his buttons.
Instead I approached him and put my hand on his arm. He flinched, more out of surprise than anything, but didn't pull away. He wouldn't meet my eye. It occurred to me that Stan was more vulnerable than he let on, choosing instead to portray a confident, apathetic persona that didn't let anyone's opinions get to him. But that wasn't true at all. Despite him hating me in the elevator, it only took a couple hours together for him to reveal his soft underbelly.
"Now listen," I said, gentle but firm. "I need you to stop calling yourself ugly. It simply isn't true."
Stan furrowed his brow, challenging my gaze now. "Yes, it—"
"Nope." I pressed a finger to his lips before he could continue. Usually I would never treat a client in such a disrespectful way, but Stan was different. He was worlds away from any other client I had in my life. It was something he needed to hear and, if I was being honest with myself, I liked touching him. His arm, his lips…
Was I imagining the warm spark that formed at the place where our skin connected? My stomach fluttered.
What is this feeling?
Stan's face softened and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. He had the same deer in headlights look that he did in the elevator when I leaned close to him. I realized that I liked teasing him in this playful way.
"I won't allow you to say those things about yourself anymore," I said. "My studio is a safe place. That includes safety from cruel words, even if they come from your own mouth."
Emotions flashed across Stan's face. He froze, not even daring to breathe. His gaze was locked on mine. I would accept a lot from him—including, for the time being, that hideous outfit I wanted to burn—but I would not accept his thinly disguised self-loathing.
Finally, Stan exhaled the breath he’d been holding. I nearly shuddered as its warmth grazed my finger, which was still pressed to his lips. Realizing this, I drew it back.
"Fine, if it's a rule of your studio or whatever, I won't say it," he mumbled.
Pleased with his progress, I smiled. "Thank you."
I was suddenly very much aware of the fact that we were alone in private. The fluttering sensation in my chest grew stronger. I couldn't keep my eyes off Stan.
Yes, this reaction was quite abnormal. Never had I felt this way towards the client. Perhaps it was time I stop thinking of Stan as a client, and instead thought of him as something more. A friend? No, he would flatly refuse that title. Besides, it didn't encapsulate the way I felt about him properly. It was difficult to explain. It was almost like…
I sucked in a soft breath. These intense emotions, this magnetic pull towards him—could Stan be my fated mate?
No, he couldn't be. It simply wasn't possible. And if I brought it up to him, he would run screaming from the building to file a restraining order ASAP.
For now, I shoved the feelings down as best I could. We still had work to do.
I gestured back towards the studio. "Well, I'm sure you're sick of seeing my office. Shall we begin?"
5
Stan
We spentthe rest of the afternoon discussing what Fabian called a 'brief', which was as boring as it sounded. Basically we sat down together at a table while he pulled out luxurious leather portfolios of work he’d done in the past, and binders full of different kinds of fashion and hairstyles. My mind went numb just looking at it. It felt like I was back in high school doing advanced functions, except somehow even less fun.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. The actual task at hand was brain meltingly boring, but spending time with Fabian wasn't too bad. I may have misjudged him. I expected him to be pompous and arrogant—and somehow, he was those things, but he did it in a way that was warm and inviting. It sounded ridiculous, but his charisma overrode his ego. I could kind of understand now why everybody was so obsessed with him.
Not that I would admit it.
"All right, now listen carefully, Stan," Fabian said, pushing a set of laminated photographs towards me. We'd been doing this for hours now and I think he was nearing his limit. "I need you – repeat, need you—to pick a style, for all that is good and holy."
I opened my mouth, but Fabian's finger shot up, cutting me off.
"And do not say you hate them all, because you said that about every single concept so far."
