The Lover’s Game (No Exceptions #2)(5)
Author: J.C. Reed

I forced my legs to move, though all I managed was to stumble forward and plop into the chair with the grace of a grizzly bear. “Thank you.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat as I settled into the chair. His penetrating presence did nothing to calm down the frantic beating of my heart. Now I knew why I had never liked job interviews: They always made you feel inferior, as if I had messed up and had just been given a tiny chance to prove in less than ten seconds that I was worth the hassle. Smiling at Grayson, I realized this felt even worse because I wasn’t just applying for any job. I also had to prove I had what it took in the looks and sex appeal department while, under Grayson’s scrutinizing eyes, I felt completely exposed—even more so because, even though he was a bit too lean for my taste, he was still good-looking.

I expected him to sit back and start the usual interrogation, but he stood and walked around the desk, then stopped just inches away from me, his leg almost brushing mine in the process.

“All right.” He sighed and folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the desk. “So… Jenna, right?”

I nodded.

“Thalia tells me you’re interested in working for me. Have you modeled before?”

“No.” I forced the word past my lips in a hesitant huff. I had expected the question, but not straight away, and it unsettled me. “I don’t have any experience in modeling at all.”

“It’s okay,” Grayson said, as though reading my mind. “A lot of girls start here with nil experience. I like to see them as diamonds in the rough that only have to be cut and polished into priceless gems.”

Wow. No modesty there.

For some reason, the analogy made him instantly likeable. I smiled, and he pushed a clipboard toward me, inclining his head in the process, silently urging me to take a look. I peered at the questionnaire and then back at him.

“Let’s start with a few basic questions to see if you’re suitable for the job,” Grayson said.

“Great.” I watched him unscrew the lid of his pen and grab the clipboard out of my hand.

“Full name?”

“Jenna Stewart,” I said carefully.

“Age?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Status?”

I stared at him, but it wasn’t him I was seeing; rather, it was the image of Jett kissing Tiffany, her arms around him, her body pressed against his. I wondered if he had slept with her after that kiss. Probably. That led to the next question: How often had they met behind my back? Jett had had plenty of opportunities to see her all those times when he had pretended to work late while I was stuck at home, clueless and under the impression he really loved me.

“Status?” Grayson repeated and slowly looked up from his clipboard, his blue eyes piercing through me with such an intensity that it felt like a breeze was touching my soul.

Status? Stupid.

Apparently, I had failed at yet another relationship and it was all my fault. Some things about human evolution never changed, and that included hard-to-get players like Jett and morons like me, who were quick to love and even quicker to lose. The whole time I had been with Jett, I had been under the impression he would surmount his urge to be free and settle down with me, maybe even get married. I had pictured it all—the white fence, the nursery, we as a family sitting at the dinner table—all the while forgetting the most important fact: Jett didn’t believe in rules, restrictions, and boundaries.

“Single,” I said, because I couldn’t share my true thoughts. My voice sounded choked, but Grayson didn’t seem to notice.

“Good.” He nodded. “One of the secrets to success is no distractions whatsoever. Nothing that interferes with the job.”

I laughed bitterly. “Yeah, that’s so true.”

And it was. If I had never been in love with Jett, I would have been more focused. I would have known that something was wrong with him and our relationship as a whole.

“Any health problems or conditions I should know of?”

Sighing, I fiddled with the hem of the dress. This was the perfect time to tell him about the pregnancy, but I decided against it. First of all, it was none of his business. Second, he might decide it was a distraction. Third, he could have very well been one of those men who thought pregnancy was something ugly, and I couldn’t afford another blow to my ego.

I shook my head and replied, “None that I know of.”

“Height and weight?”

I answered his questions patiently. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, he put the clipboard away, signaling that he was about to finish his interrogation, and retrieved a measuring tape from one of the drawers.

“Bra size?”

I stared at him, then moistened my lips, uncomfortable with the inquiry.

He noticed my reaction. “It’s for my clients,” he explained.

“I know. Sorry.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and answered his question, and then he motioned for me to stand, the measuring tape dangling from his hand.

Surely, he wasn’t going to…A shiver moved through me at the thought of him touching me or expecting me to undress. Until recently, it had never occurred to me that any man other than Jett would ever roam his hands over my body. Granted, it was never intended to be a sexual situation, but it still felt intimate. Unexpected. Strange. And I was still bleeding from Jett’s betrayal. I wouldn’t have been surprised to look under my clothes and find my body broken, bloody, and shattered for the whole world to see.

“Do you mind if I take your measurements?” Grayson asked. “My clients are very specific.”

Actually, I did care, but I could hardly refuse—not when he was kind enough to ask.

Shaking my head with trepidation, I said, “Of course not.”

He motioned for me to stand up again, and this time I did as he expected of me. I held my breath as his hand went around my waist gently. He stopped in midair, his face mere inches away from mine as he looked at me amused.

“You don’t have to hold your breath, Jenna.”

With my gaze glued to the floor, I forced my breath out. He was standing so close, I was sure he could feel the nervous pounding of my heart. I could feel his hot breath on my skin and, for some reason, it felt odd and slightly unsettling. Almost forbidden, as if no other man should be allowed to touch me after Jett.

“Why do you want this job?” he asked gently as he continued to measure me: first my hips, then my waist, his hand close to my skin without really touching me. I figured it was a means to divert my attention and make me feel more comfortable. To my surprise, it worked because, gradually, I began to relax. Maybe because deep down I knew he was a professional and probably used to touching all types of women, used to beauty, perfection, and human flaws.