We’ve looked at so many photos by now that the colors, faces, and backgrounds are blending together. I don’t know how she can weigh the small details anymore. Everything looks the same to me and my brain protests each time she asks for my opinion. She’s supposed to be judging a potential new photographer’s style—studying the angles, lighting, colors. Emzee doesn’t seem impressed. She’s been nitpicking every single image. Another Zoric perfectionist.
“There’s too much background focus in these ones. He should have played with the depth of field.” She pulls up another and holds it at arm’s length. “And look. See how her hip juts out all weird? That’ll have to be photoshopped, and you know how people hate that these days.”
I laugh at her angst. “Emzee, you’re stressing over every single picture.”
“Because none of them are right!”
“Then tell your brothers you can’t commit to hiring anyone yet,” I say more gently. “I’m sure there are plenty more out there who’d love to come in and show you what they’ve got.”
DRM has been testing out new portfolio photographers this week, preparing for an influx of work that they hope will be coming to their models soon. It’s all been very hush-hush.
“You seem edgy today,” I add, realizing how ridiculous it sounds as the words leave my mouth. Emzee isalwaysedgy; it’s her default. Her cool, precise, no-nonsense demeanor rubs a lot of people wrong, but I’ve finally gotten used to it. In fact, I’m a little jealous of my sister-in-law’s ability to carry herself like an absolute queen.
She shrugs and starts to collect up the images. “Maybe. It’s just infuriating seeing subpar work from someone who made such a big deal about how they went to ‘Rhode Island School of Design’ and shot a campaign for ‘Chanel’ and whatever. It’s like being lied to, right to your face. Besides, I wanted to hire another woman. There’s way too much testosterone around here.”
Drumming my nails on the tabletop, I lean closer and smile. “Boy trouble?”
She narrows her eyes. “Look at the men in my family. You think I’m capable of dating?”
It’s a good mysterious answer from her. On one hand, she might mean that she has a skewed view of what men are like. On the other, maybe she’s saying she wouldn’t want to bring a guy home to meet them. It isn’t much of an answer, either way. Emzee could very well be dating someone in secret. But if that’s her choice, I’m happy to respect her privacy.
“Well, don’t worry,” I tell her. “You’ve got Munchkin and he’s perfect.”
“He is, isn’t he?” she coos. “Did I text you the picture of him in his bunny costume?”
“Yep.”
If Emzee has one true love in this world, it has got to be her French bulldog.
I stifle a yawn and glance at my watch. “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Want one?”
She picks up another photograph. Studies it. “Sure. One cream. A pound of sugar.”
My lip curls up. “Since when?”
“Since never. Just kidding. I’ll take it black like my soul, if you please.”
I grin. That’s about as close to humor as I’ve ever gotten with her, and I’m glad. I love spending time with her. Now if I could only make the same kind of progress with my husband.
I was wary of meeting Emzee at the office today, knowing Luka would be in the same building. He’s acted even more distant ever since our little fuck fest at the body paint show. It’s obvious his overtime at work is part of his plan to keep away from me, but I’m still hopeful that our physical reconnection means we can tiptoe back into working on everything else. So I don’t want to risk derailing things by showing up at his office door unannounced.
Heading down the hallway, I hear voices from the break room, getting louder as I round the corner. I hesitate at first, but then slip inside with a polite smile. The two execs don’t even notice me. Their backs are to the door, heads bent as they speak in low tones.
I recognize the man closest to me. He’s on the executive board for DRM and has been working hard alongside the Zoric family to boost the agency’s new image and help them ride out the bad press of the trafficking scandal. The woman with him is new to me, but she’s in a severe bun, black pantsuit, and spiky stilettos to match, so I’d wager she’s not to be fucked with.
Making my way over to the fancy espresso machine, I grab two mugs from the rack and then take my time pouring the coffees. I’m within earshot from this range, and while I don’t mean to eavesdrop, it’s a little hard not to hear what they’re whisper-shouting about.
They’re discussing a massive casting opportunity. Of course I’m going to listen in.
“We’re creating the next Gisele,” the man stresses. “We can’t go off all half-assed.”
“I get that,” the woman says, “but you have to get our people on board first. You’re talking about a very ambitious plan. What if they pass on our model and go with another Elite girl? Launching a new face is always a risk.”
New face?I open the cabinet and pretend I can’t find the sugar. My heart is pounding.
“Exactly my point!” he says. “Risk, dollars, ambition—it’s the only way this company is going to bounce back. We need a brand-new face. Just think of the multimedia ad campaigns, the social media, the billboards. It’ll be total saturation. KZM will be ubiquitous again.”
“Danica Rose,” the woman corrects him sternly. “The old agency is dead for a reason.”
