Sloane
The young woman next to me—she can’t be more than twenty-four—flashes me a million-watt smile. “Oh, God. Sloane Sanders. Excuse me while I fangirl all over the place. You’re the reason I wanted to be a model in the first place! I saw you at Fashion Week ten years ago. My aunt works forYves Saint Laurentand snuck me in with her, and you were just…radiant. I’m Jill, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” We air kiss, the habit ingrained in me from early days in this industry. Impersonal, perfunctory, even, yet to anyone watching, we probably look like we’ve known one another for years. “What agency are you with?”
“Thompson and Taylor.” Jill’s bright red hair and wide green eyes give her a Red Riding Hood look, considering she’s wearing a sheer black cloak over her skin-tight bodysuit. “They’ve been so awesome. I didn’t think I’d make the cut this year, but when the call came…I screamed so loud!”
Her energy does nothing for my nerves, but she’s so sincere, I can’t be rude to her. Members of the press file in, taking their assigned seats, and the photographers adjust their lenses for some candid shots.
My gaze pings between Griff and the clock on the back wall. Thirty minutes. I can do this. Half an hour and I can change into something more comfortable—and much less revealing—and let Griff whisk me away from here like a knight on a white horse.
“Is this your first presser?” I ask Jill, not taking my eyes off my protector. His intense stare grounds me. Despite breaking eye contact to study each person in the room, he returns his gaze to mine every thirty seconds or so, and I don’t know if I could do this without him.
“Yes. My agent prepped me a little, but I had so much caffeine this morning, I’m sure I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.” Coiling a lock of hair tightly around her finger, she tugs sharply before releasing it. Lowering her voice, she adds, “Do the caffeine pills upset your stomach too?”
Oh, no. This one is going to crash and burn if she’s not careful. Turning my head so none of the press can read my lips, I whisper, “This industry has many dirty secrets. That’s one of them. Never let the press hear you mention that again.”
Jill recoils like I just slapped her hand, but she’s still grinning—training trumps everything else—even for the inexperienced. “Uh…th-thanks.”
Patting her thigh under the table, I offer her a practiced smile. “Your agent should have told you. Don’t stress about it.”
Gratitude shines in her green eyes, and she nods once before returning her attention to the full rows of seats.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”Beauty and Style’sVice President of Print Media bounds up onto the raised platform holding a microphone in her hand. “Welcome to the Christmas Book Debut weekend! My name is Nan Roberra, and I’m so pleased to introduce you to some of the models we’ve chosen to feature prominently in this year’s catalog. As you know, this is the tenth anniversary of the Christmas Book, and I’m proud to announce we’ve expanded our distribution to twenty-three countries and nineteen different languages.”
Under the table, my hands won’t stay still, clenching and unclenching, fingers drumming against my thighs. If there weren’t microphones all around me, I’d be cracking my knuckles one after another.
Nan’s words fade into the background, almost like I’m listening to her underwater. Shit. I’m edging towards a panic attack, and if I can’t calm down, this is going to be a disaster.
Finding Griff, I pray he understands how close to the edge I am. He’s leaning against the wall, but after a beat, stands up straight, and rests his hand on his chest, all five fingers splayed. Then he tucks one under his palm. Followed by another. And another.
“Count for me. Backwards from forty-seven.”
Was that only last night? With a small nod, I try.Forty-seven. Forty-six. Forty-five.
“…finally, I’ll introduce you to our star, the woman you’ll see on the covers of Christmas Books all around the world, Sloane Sanders!” Nan gestures to me, and I give the press a winning smile and a little wave. “And with that, let’s get to your questions.”
The first reporter to ask about Griff waits a full fifteen minutes to do so, which almost surprises me. Usually they’re all over the relationship angle. But apparently Jill made a bit of a scene last night after the cocktail party making out with one of the other models, so that was priority number one.
“Ms. Sanders, Nigel Rathmore with the BBC. Your entrance was, shall I say, titillating? Who’s the new man in your life?”
I don’t need to fake my blush. Thinking about the kiss we shared in front of all those cameras? Warmth floods my core, and I struggle not to squirm in my seat. “His name is Harry Griffin, Mr. Rathmore. We met after he joined the Ulstrum Agency, and we’ve been together for almost three months now. He’s a wonderful man, and I’m so glad he was able to accompany me to Zurich.”
“Are there wedding bells in your future?” Rathmore asks.
“Nigel, you don’t expect me to kiss and tell, do you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Griff smile, and I turn and blow him a quick kiss.
Another reporter immediately jumps to his feet, but half the room is clamoring to ask the next question, and I don’t catch his name. “Mr. Griffin is deaf, is he not? His bio says he’s also an amputee. How has that been a challenge for you?”
A muscle in Griff’s jaw starts to tick, and I pin the reporter with a stare I hope can melt glass. “Is there some reason you feel that’s an appropriate question? Millions of people around the world have some form of hearing loss or are missing a limb. I care much more about Mr. Griffin’s heart and mind than I ever will about his arm or what he can or cannot hear.”
The jerk sinks back into his chair, and I think I hear a muttered apology. Thankfully, someone fromUSA Todaychanges the subject to ask one of the male models what it’s like to be one of the first transgender men to be featured in the Christmas Book.
I can’t stop stealing glances at Griff. His face is still impassive, but the tension in his shoulders wasn’t there before, and I wish I could find a way to ease his discomfort.
“One last question!” Nan announces, and in the last row, a man with messy black hair and a full beard stands and holds up his hand. There’s something about him that’s vaguely off-putting, but then again, I feel that way about a lot of the press.
“Ms.Sanders? I am Nikolai Lebdev withArgumenty i Faktyout of Moscow.”
