This couch is freaking heaven. It’s so soft and plush that I could seriously lie down on it and sleep forever. I shake my head. No, I can’t lie down. I have to be on my toes for whatever is about to happen up here. I pull out my cell phone to text Jo and inform her that I was pulled away for a bit but to let me know when she’s ready to roll. The cute waitress comes back, sets my cocktail down on the little coffee table, and scurries off.
Weird.
I’m halfway through my drink when I hear a small commotion in front of me. The guard outside of the alcove opens the rope, and someone enters the small space. I can feel my heart racing. It’s pounding so hard in my chest that it feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve never been so nervous in all my life, and I have no clue what I even have to be nervous about. I see a tall figure walking toward me, and the person stops just a few feet in front of my body. My mouth gapes when I look up.
Holy. Shit.
Holy fucking shit. I mean, holy fucking shit.
Once he walks himself over into the dim lit area, I almost piss myself. This guy is absolutely gorgeous. If I didn’t know what my type was before, I definitely know now. My type is him. He is freakishly tall, like me, with slightly shaggy blond hair, not as light as mine, and dark blue eyes. He has a square jaw, thick neck, and a chest so big and massive that I can only anticipate what it looks like without that pesky shirt. His jeans are low cut and hug everything they are meant to hug, doing so absolutely perfectly. He looks straight into my eyes and smirks.
Damn.
Smug bastard knows he is hot shit.
“Hey,” he says smoothly the deep timbre of his voice causing a shiver to run through me. He folds himself into a chair, sitting directly across from me.
Who is this guy?
“Do I know you or something?” I try really hard not to sound bitchy.
I know I have never seen this form of gorgeousness before. Still, what the hell is all this about anyway?
“No, not exactly. I saw you at the bar and on the dance floor, and I wanted to meet you,” he croons as his eyes lazily travel along the length of my body.
Shit, his voice is awesome—all deep and rumbly. Double shit.
“All right,” I say before downing the rest of my cocktail. Damn, I am nervous.
“I’m Jarrod. And you are?” He holds his hand out to me.
Fuck. I’m afraid if I touch him, then I will just pull my dress up and throw myself at him.
“Ah-mah-lee,” I concede, pronouncing it as best as I can.
I shake his massive hand. It’s all warm and big and actually engulfs mine. For a girl who is six feet tall, that is impressive, to say the least. I feel dainty next to him. Me…dainty? I almost laugh out loud at the thought.
“You from here?” he asks casually.
“I live here in Boston, but I am originally from Denmark.”
I see Mr. Gorgeous Jarrod’s eyes light up. Yeah, he likes the idea of me being foreign. I knew he would. Most men eat that shit up. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it makes me exotic. Who knows?
“Wow. How long have you lived in the States?” I can tell that he’s intrigued not only by the question but also by the glint of curiosity in his eyes.
“Eighteen years. We moved here when I was a child. I lived in Florida until about seven years ago. My best friend and I moved here for college and just stayed.” That’s all the family history ole blue eyes is going to get from me.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
Is he lazy? He could do the math. I thought that I gave him all the information, but maybe he’s drunk and wants a quick answer. Ah, and here lays the problem. Sexy over here probably assumes I’m twenty-one with big fake knockers. They always do. Well, now is truth time, and he’ll probably be done with me. I really am too old for most of these guys. I should be focusing on men in their thirties or forties at this point in my life.
“Twenty-five,” I state nonchalantly even though I am nervous.
“Thank fuck. I was hoping you were at least in your mid-twenties,” he blows out the breath he had obviously been holding with a smile.
I sit there in shock, just looking at him.
“I’m twenty-nine. I can’t stand those young girls. Too much drama.”
All right, I’ve got his game now. He wants a one-night stand, a girl who knows the score. Well, bucko, no matter how dusty my vajayjay is, I’m not having a one-night stand with you.
Oh, who am I kidding? He’s beautiful. Of course I will.
“All right…” I honestly don’t know what kind of game this guy is playing, and I’m not sure I want to know either.
“You want something else to drink?” he asks, pointing at my cocktail.
“No, I think I’m good,” I lie. I want truckloads of vodka, but I need to keep my wits around Mr. Beautiful with blue eyes.
“So, what do you do—you know, for a living?”
What is this—a first date? This is the weirdest thing I have ever done in my life.
“Ultrasound technician.” That’s my day job anyway, and it’s all he needs to know for the moment.
“Oh, yeah? Like, for babies and stuff?”
“Babies and many other internal issues,” I add.
Everyone always thinks all I do is tell people the sex of their babies all day long. It’s annoying.
“Cool,” he says.
He doesn’t offer up his occupation, so I let it lie.
What do I care what he does all day long anyway?
This is awkward—like, really awkward.
“Do you want to dance?” Hell, I don’t know what else to say to this guy.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Wow. That sounds nice, but I’m sure he says that to all the girls.
He takes my hand in his, and for the first time in my life, that feeling of being dainty comes back and I find myself blushing. He stands up, and with my heels, I realize he is still at least four inches taller than I am.
Holy hell.
I follow him cascading through the dimly lit hallway, down the stairs, and onto the dance floor. It’s almost closing time, so the dance floor is a little less congested because most people are running to order a few more drinks before the after-hours part of the club starts.
He grabs my waist and pulls me into him. He sways his hips like he’s the most graceful person on earth, not like he’s almost seven freaking feet tall. His body is solid. I mean, his solid is pressed against my extremely un-solid physique. My arms are draped around his neck, as he pulls me even closer to him. If we were naked, we would definitely be close to actual penetration at this point. One of his hands slides up my back and fists into my hair. He begins to lean down, and just as I think he’s going to kiss me, his lips redirect and glide to my ear.
He whispers, “You are so fucking beautiful.” He tugs on the back of my head a little and continues, “I want to bury my face in your hair. Fuck.” He lets the last word roll off his tongue in a growl.
My whole body shivers. Damn. I want to say something, and I really should, but that was pretty sexy, and I have no way to be sexy back at him.
So, we just continue to dance, and his body is bent over me with his face in my neck. Shit, it’s hot.
He licks my neck right behind my ear, and my whole body heats. Double shit.
Just when things are starting to get really obscenely hot, I feel someone poking my hip.
What the…
I look down, and it’s my fairy friend, Jo. Bitch has some serious shit timing.
“Lee, I am beyond ready to go.”
She is beyond drunk is what she is. I scowl at her. I finally meet a beautiful, hot, sexy big guy who actually seems into me, and this is how it plays out.
Damn Jo. I narrow my eyes and wonder if she was just waiting for me to find somebody, so she could break up my good time. It wouldn’t be the first time she got pissed because someone liked me, and nobody liked her. It’s childish, but it’s how some g
irls behave.
“All right, Jo.”
What else am I going to say? Get your own ride home?
No, I couldn’t do that. She’s my best friend, and I love her too much. Plus, she looks wasted.
“Sorry, Jarrod. I need to get her home.” I turn to leave, and my wrist is suddenly grasped in his huge hand.
He pulls me towards him, my body staggering as I fall into his chest my hands automatically resting on his rock hard chest. “Stay with me. I’ll call a cab for your friend there. Just don’t leave.” He sounds semi-desperate.
I’m no fool. I know exactly what he wants, and a few years ago, I would have jumped on him in a heartbeat but not anymore. Now, I want someone who will actually give a shit about me in the morning.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say.
I grab Jo’s hand, and we walk out the door. I sneak a peek back at the sexiest man I have ever seen, and he’s just watching me, scowling. Well, I’ll never see him again.
“Leaving so soon?” the bouncer at the entrance asks.
“Yeah, I owe you a beer next time, and you can tell me all about your beautiful girl,” I say with a smile.
“Sounds great. You need a ride?”
“We do. We’ll just see if we can catch a cab,” I say, waving him off.
“Nah. We have a car that takes people home. It’s usually only for our VIPs, but I want to make sure you come back and buy me that beer, so you can use it today, free of charge,” he says with a smile.
He waves toward the parking lot. A black four-door sedan pulls up. The bouncer opens the door and lets us inside.
“Be safe, girls.” He taps the top of the car.
“Who was that hunk of a man you were dancing with?” Jo asks me after we give the driver our apartment’s address.
She’s acting like she didn’t just interrupt us, like nothing at all is wrong, I want to slap her, but instead, I just roll my eyes.
“All I know is his name is Jarrod. I didn’t get much further because my friend pulled me out of his freaking gigantic arms,” I huff as I fall back into the seat.
“Well, excuse me. I didn’t want to go to that club in the first place, and then I had all these creepy guys humping me all night. I just wanted to go home.” She’s wasted and pissed.
“Oh, it’s fine. No biggie, girl,” I say as we pull up in front of our apartment.
Arguing with her is pointless. She won’t remember anything tomorrow morning anyway. I thank the driver, and we stumble our asses inside.
I’m exhausted and completely sexually frustrated, so I just crawl my ass to bed. I am practically asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
The next week flies by, and it’s Friday night again. More than once, my mind has drifted toward thoughts of the brief yet sensual encounter with Jarrod. I wonder who he is and what he does. I remember how tall he was and how I felt when he touched me—like a woman, almost vulnerable. I shake off thoughts of Jarrod.
Tonight, I have a photo shoot. Yeah, I’m a model. I’m six feet tall, for heaven’s sake, and I need to capitalize on my height while I’m still young.
I’m not a regular model. I’m far too fat to be a real one anyway. No, I’m a pinup model. I have the curves of women from the forties and fifties, so I roll with it. I model for a few clothing lines and a few pinup magazines, but tonight, I’m posing for a retro pinup calendar. I’m going to be June—all summer fun in a bikini. Luckily, most of my stomach will be covered. That’s another reason I love the type of modeling I do. My flaws are fairly covered most of the time.
“Giorgio, I’m so sorry I’m late. I had the longest day at work. I swear, I thought it would ever end,” I say as I rush over to the makeup chair.
Giorgio is the photographer that the clothing lines, magazines, and this particular calendar use. He really is the best in the retro pinup biz. I love him. We sometimes have a late dinner after our shoots because he’s as lonely as I am. Friday night shoots are the worst. The other girls are always rushing out of the place for their boyfriends or dates. So, we get together and bitch about men.
Francis starts on my dramatic makeup. Just as she’s finishing my bright red lips and Jackie is starting to take my hair out of the hot rollers, my phone rings. I have no clue who it could be. Jo knows where I am, and she’s really the only person who calls me as it is.
The number is completely foreign to me. It’s not even a Boston area code—or Florida for that matter. Not that anyone in my family would bother to call me. I decide it could be a modeling job, so I answer it.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Amalie?” a deep voice questions.
“This is she. How can I help you?” Who the hell is calling me? And why does the sound of this man’s voice make my heart race?
“It’s Jarrod, from the other night. Look, I was wondering if you would like to go out tonight?”
Holy freaking shit. First off, hell yes, I would. But secondly, how the hell did he get my number?
“Um…”
“Oh, are you busy? Have plans? I should have guessed…” he rambles.
It hits me. He’s nervous, too. Well, he has zero reason to be nervous, that sexy bastard.
“Yes…well, no, not exactly. I’m at a photo shoot right now. I’ll probably be another two hours. I can meet you somewhere if you want?”
“Photo shoot? Can I just pick you up from there?”
I ponder for only a moment. There is a diner right down the street. We can just walk there. Yeah, that will work.
“All right. There is a nice little diner down the street,” I say. I give him the address.
“Amalie, you’re up, love,” Giorgio calls.
I say good-bye to Jarrod.
I remove the robe, and in my retro leopard-print two-piece, I set myself up with the red beach ball on the fake beach. After three swimsuit changes and a billion photos, I am finally free to leave. Giorgio isn’t even fazed that we can’t hang out afterward because August is there. She is drunk, which means the normal one hour of photographing will likely turn into three or four, at best.
I slip my skinny jeans and white tank top back on, leaving all of my hair and makeup fixed up. Hell, if I am going to see the sexiest man alive, I need my face to at least look hot.
I step out of the building to see Jarrod leaning against a bright red Ferrari. Holy hell.
He looks better tonight than he did last weekend. He is dressed in a black T-shirt, perfectly fit light denim jeans, and black shoes. My mouth waters a little at the sight of him. He smiles at me as he pushes off the curb before walking toward me.
“Hey there,” he grins, looking down on me. He’s almost an entire foot taller than I am.
Of course, today, I have on my black canvas flats. I now understand why short girls take all the available tall men of the world. Having a man stand next to you and look down into your eyes instead of just across from them is hot.
“Hi,” I squeak. I start walking toward the diner, completed flustered in his presence.
“Sure you don’t want to go somewhere nicer?” he asks. His eyes narrow at the entrance of the greasy spoon.
“Nope. This place has the best burgers, and I’ve been up since three this morning. I could use a good burger,” I say, opening the door. I walk toward my favorite table in the back.
We sit down, and Chloe, the waitress, brings over our menus. With a little drool on her chin, she asks us what we want to drink.
“I’ll have a chocolate shake and water, Chloe. Thanks.”
Jarrod orders water. Bastard probably thinks I’m a giant fat ass for ordering my shake, but this place makes the best shakes. I drink one after every shoot.
“Why have you been up since three?” Jarrod questions, looking over his menu.
“I had to work today.” I work twelve to fourteen hours every single day and sleep all weekend long usually. It’s kind of sad and depressing, but it’s better than sitting around my apartment alone all of the damn time.
“Ultrasound tech, right?” he inquires, setting his menu down.
Chloe, of course, sees he is ready and runs her young tight little ass right over to us.
“Bacon cheeseburger and fries, please,” I said.
Jarrod’s eyebrows shoot up when I order, and he smirks.
I narrow my eyes at him. Screw his judgments. I am hungry as hell.
“Double burger—no cheese, no mayo, mustard only—and green salad with balsamic dressing.”
Of course, he makes the meal healthy.
I am a fat ass, I think to myself.
“Yeah, I’m an ultrasound tech.” I take a slurp of my delicious shake.
He really is missing out.
“And a model of some kind?”
I wonder what kind of model he thinks I am. Probably a plus-sized model. I suck more of my shake.
“On the side, yeah. There is a niche for my body type, so I roll with it,” I say, trying to make myself sound wanted.
It’s obvious this guy is not going to be asking me out again based solely on my food preferences.
“Oh, I have no doubt that your body type has the market cornered. What kind of modeling, if you don’t mind me asking?” He takes a big bite of his burger.
“Pinup,” I state, dipping my crinkle fry in ketchup.
“Nude?” He narrows his eyes.
“No. Trust me. No one wants to see all of that. I do clothes usually for a couple of pinup-style retro stores. You know, forties-style stuff. I’m curvy, and that’s all I need to be for that. Plus, my height helps. Tonight, it was for a pinup calendar. First time I’ve ever done one. I’m June.” I take a big bite of my burger.
“I know for a fact that everyone at that club last week wanted to see all of that. Don’t talk bad about yourself. You are fucking beautiful,” he says. He shoves the remainder of his burger into his gorgeous face.
Well, hell. What am I supposed to say to that compliment?
I don’t say anything. I pretend he just didn’t say it, and I move on to something different. His eyes sparkle as they look at me while I dip my fries into ketchup, and I try not to think about how beautiful he is, but I fail.
“So, what do you do for a living, Jarrod—besides stalking ultrasound technicians?”
Pitching for Amalie Page 2
