Page 33 of Daring the Bad Boy
“Great.” Tash walked into the office – the tiny office which also made Rosie’s throat stick whenever she entered it. Memories of Cal naked and erect not helping with her ‘getting real’ agenda.
“I almost forgot.” Tash whipped an envelope out of her back pocket. “Jim, the doorman, handed me this when I came in today. Apparently it arrived yesterday, delivered by hand after you’d left for the day.”
Rosie frowned, and took the envelope, surprised to see her name written across it in a bold black scrawl that looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps it was from one of her former students, inviting her to a showcase, although the stationery looked too expensive. And who sent hand written invites anymore when email was so much cheaper and more efficient?
“Well, go ahead and open it then,” Tash demanded. “Maybe you have a secret admirer; it looks personal.”
“Not funny,” Rosie said, her heart doing a loop the loop as she flipped the envelope over and broke the seal. She pulled out a white card, with a photograph printed on one side.
She recognized the shot immediately: the subdued lighting, the creased white cotton, the shadows cast across freckled skin. And the dancing light in her eyes, full of hope and promise and all the indulgent over-the-top emotions she’d been working so hard to suppress for six weeks.
Heat rose into her cheeks as her breath got trapped somewhere around her solar plexus. She pressed fingers to her lips to contain the sob that wanted to burst out of her mouth.
“Who’s it fro
m?” Tash rushed round to stand behind her and read the card over her shoulder. “Holy shit, Rosie, that’s you. You look absolutely stunning.”
“I… I know it’s me.” But it didn’t look like her. It looked like another woman entirely. Not the woman she thought she was, but the woman she’d always wanted to be. Bold and sexy and strong. She knew the exact moment he’d taken it too, when he’d suggested they could stop and she’d been determined to continue. No matter what.
Reaching over her shoulder, Tash grabbed Rosie’s hand and flipped the card over to read the writing printed on the back. It announced the opening of a new exhibition of ‘personal work’ by award-winning photographer, Caleb Landry, in a private showing at the Royal Academy on Piccadilly. Tonight at 7pm.
But next to the printed invitation for ‘Rosie Smith plus guests’ was written in the same black scrawl as on the envelope. Please Come. C xx.
“Mr Abso-Fricking-Luscious is Caleb Landry? Bloody hell. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us?” Tash looked amazed and intrigued and pissed off at the same time.
“There wasn’t much to tell,” Rosie said, determined to believe it, and cling on to the certainty that their one night had meant nothing. Because the hope crawling up her chest, that bright brittle hope that had led her astray before, was scaring the hell out of her.
She refused to start investing in that fairytale again.
“Bollocks!” Tash said. “He took the sexiest picture I’ve ever seen of you. And now he’s dedicating a whole exhibition to you. Are you nuts?”
“I’m not going.” Rosie slipped the card back in the envelope and placed it on the desk, as if she were handling nitroglycerine. Because that’s exactly what this invitation was.
She could not step back into that minefield. Cal probably believed he owed her the courtesy of an invite that was all, because she’d been the subject of some of the photos. Probably all the other models would be there too. What if he’d slept with some of them as well? How excruciating would that be? Even more awkward than their final parting, if that were possible.
“Like hell, you’re not.” Tash grabbed Rosie’s arm and yanked her out of her chair. “Don’t just sit there, we need to get back to yours. We’ve only got two hours to make you completely fabulous.”
Rosie tugged her arm out of Tash’s before her friend could march her right out of the office and into the studio. “I’m serious, Tash. I’m not going. I’ll only end up making a fool of myself again.”
Tash’s eyes narrowed, her face taking on that look that said she could see right past Rosie’s lies and all her defenses. “I bloody knew it. You fell for him didn’t you? I knew that line you strung me and Imo about the epic sex with no connection was bullshit. Or you wouldn’t have been totally miserable ever since Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m fine. I’m not miserable. Maybe there was a bit of a connection, for me. But there wasn’t for him and I’m over it now.” Or she would be. Eventually.
“Why do you want to be over it?” Tash countered. “He’s hot, he’s successful, he’s interested and he sees you for who you really are. Or he would never have taken that photograph.”
Rosie’s temper spiked. Since when had love-em-and-leave-em Tash become a hopeless romantic? “That’s his job. He’s very good at it. The only interest he has in me now is purely professional.”
“He added two kisses. In what language does that say purely professional?”
“It doesn’t matter, because I don’t want to see him.”
Tash’s features softened, the mulish tilt of her chin disappearing as her eyes softened in sympathy. “Yes, you do. Or you wouldn’t have been so devastated after one night with him.” She touched Rosie’s arm, her expression beseeching now. “You were never this cut up about Vince, and he lived with you for over a year.”
“Because Vince was a dick. And Cal’s not, he’s just… He was vulnerable and it complicated things.” For her, at least.
“Vulnerable how?”
“His father died the week before he met me. He had…” How did she put it without betraying his confidence. “He had issues. Tough stuff he had to deal with, and I was just a handy port in a storm.” She’d told herself that often enough over the last six weeks to make herself certain of it.