Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
The makeup artist is re-oiling my chest, muttering something about Chloe wiping it all off and the photos looking like a piss-poor wax job of a surfboard. I guess that’s all I’m good for—a shiny, hard surface.
I try to catch Autumn’s eye, but she’s on her knees, cutting the shoes off Chloe’s ankles with angry snips from a pair of orange scissors, and I wonder if she’s going to cut Chloe’s Achilles tendons with the way she’s waving the scissors around. It’d serve Chloe right after whatever the hell that walk was. Chloe seems wholly unaffected, though, actually examining her nails with a smug lilt to her lips while Autumn freaks out.
When Autumn stands and pulls the dress off Chloe, she finally looks around and catches my gaze. I’m stuck, wanting to go over and encourage her but knowing she wants to earn this on her own. Autumn’s eyes are full of fire, and I try to send her a mental message . . .
Good girl. Keep fighting. The competition’s not over yet.
I risk a small smile, but she turns away to start getting Chloe into her final piece.
Autumn
“Atrocious.”
“Terrible.”
“Quite unfortunate.”
“What in the absolute fuck of tom-fuckery is going on here?”
I hear all this and more as I wait for Chloe to come off stage. And okay, that last one was me and it wasn’t quiet given the looks everyone else backstage is shooting my way. It was an exhibition of pure, unadulterated shock and fury. This is my one big, last chance to make a good impression on the fashionistas in the audience, and it’s going completely off-the-rails wrong.
First, Chloe’s been hanging onto Simon’s arm since they stepped out on the runway, and the way they posed together at the end has me fuming. I don’t mind a bit of dramatics on the runway, but they need to be planned and approved by the damn designer. And I’m not ashamed to say that I’m jealous and want to snatch Chloe’s blonde extensions right from her scalp for touching my man that way.
Second, what happened to my Love is Blind dress? It was perfect moments ago. I double- and triple-checked it myself, but now it looks like it’s been through a blender that was on pulse mode, with slashes here and gashes there. Hell, the oopsie with Jeanette’s peek-a-boo nipple wasn’t this bad, though I guess it’s some small blessing that Chloe doesn’t have her tits out. The way she was strutting around near-nude earlier tells me she probably wouldn’t have a single issue with doing a topless fashion show.
Third, that walk was appalling. I don’t know Chloe’s modeling experience, but judging by what she just did, I don’t think she could smoothly walk down the sidewalk, much less a runway.
Simon peels Chloe off as they come through the curtain, and I’m doing my best to keep my anger under control when I see her.
“What the hell was that?” I snap as I push her to my workstation.
“Calm down. It wasn’t bad, the shoe thing was barely noticeable,” Chloe tells me, sounding completely unfazed.
“Not. That. Bad?” I repeat through clenched teeth. I take a deep breath, on the verge of a scream. I’m about to stab her with the scissors in my pocket. I’m about to—
No, don’t ruin this any more than it already has been, I tell myself. I can’t fix the dress issue when it’s already walked and been seen, so the main thing I need to focus on is the presentation for my finale piece. I don’t have time for anything else right now because my second look, the red va-va-voom gown, is already out on the runway.
I help Chloe into my mourning dress, doing up the hidden zipper and quadruple-checking this time to make sure that every stitch and seam is perfect. I give her explicit instructions, reverting to the make-shift sign language I used with Jeanette in case Chloe doesn’t understand my accent . . . though she’s been responding to me very clearly in English. Using my fingers, I tell her, “Walk down the runway as gracefully as you can manage, one foot in front of the other. No touching Simon. I don’t want oil all over my gown.” I hold my hands up in emphasis. “No hands on Simon.”
After that, I go so far as demonstrating a semi-reasonable model walk myself. “Got it?”
Chloe’s lips quirk as though she’s trying not to laugh at me. I might not be the best walker, and I’m definitely not built like a model, but at least I’m not an uncoordinated rhinoceros trying to make it in runway fashion.
“Oui?” I ask. There’s a lot more I’d like to say, but I stick with the bare minimum because I’m not sure Chloe can handle anything else. Hell, I’m not sure I can handle anything else without going crazy.