The Lover’s Game (No Exceptions #2)(6)
Author: J.C. Reed

“I have debts,” I heard myself say even though I had no idea why I was being so honest.

“How much do you owe?”

His candidness startled me. I stared at him, surprised at the fact that I wanted to confide in him. “Almost a hundred grand.”

His blue gaze pierced me, but there was no judgment in his eyes. “That’s a lot.”

I nodded and took a long breath, then let it out slowly. “I know.”

For a moment, we remained quiet. Our eyes connected and my heart began to thump just a little bit harder—not because I wanted him, but because he seemed to understand. His measuring tape was around my shoulder, and for a moment, the unwelcome image of him kissing me popped into my mind, and how much that would hurt Jett. How much that would give me the satisfaction of knowing I might actually be able to hurt him as much as he had hurt me. But that wasn’t me. I couldn’t stoop so low. Besides, I knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with the shame and self-loathing.

Heat began to pour through me, not from sexual attraction but from the disturbing thoughts I harbored about my possible future boss. As if sensing my sudden shame, Grayson broke our eye contact.

“There was a time when I owed $400,000,” he said and removed the tape, his voice quiet.

“Four?”

He nodded. “I was a struggling artist and photographer for ages, working on commission, waiting to be picked for jobs from among incredible competition, all while drowning in debt.”

“What happened?” I asked when he fell silent. He had shown interest in my problems, and it was only natural to inquire about his. I had sensed the moment I saw those girls talking that they had a good working relationship with him, and I had been right.

Grayson leaned back against the desk and began to rub his chin as he exhaled slowly, his eyes reminiscent of the past. “I figured I could either continue on that path that would eventually lead to complete self-destruction and self-hatred, or I could do something about it. There weren’t many options left.” He looked up again, his eyes sparkling with defiance. “I borrowed more money and started my own business, focusing on finding diamonds in the rough while relying on rich benefactors, working on appearance. I poured all the money I earned into advertising and hosting parties, building connections, until I found one rich investor who helped me put together a client list, one at a time.” He smiled, his face relaxing slightly. “I worked my ass off day and night, but taking out a bigger loan was a risk worth taking. To make a business successful, you have to invest in it.” His pale blue eyes assessed me, and his lips twitched, though whether it was with amusement or sarcasm I couldn’t tell. “What? You thought it was all given to me?”

I hesitated. Considering that Grayson was so young, I actually had thought so, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him. Instead, I said, “Surely it must have cost a fortune to set up a studio and build a reputation.”

He rolled up the measuring tape and jotted the numbers down, taking his time to answer. “It wasn’t cheap, and there were times when I doubted my decision.”

“Why?”

Grayson hesitated again, as though he was unsure as to whether or not to reveal the truth. “I’m a school dropout. My family was poor, so I had no other choice than to start working. Everything I’ve built is the result of my struggles and learning from mistakes—lots and lots of mistakes, by me and others.” He turned to me, narrowing his eyes in thought. “The most important thing I’ve learned along the way is that it’s okay to quit when something isn’t working out, because continuing is a waste of my time and energy. You have to put faith in your abilities. Most people make the mistake of focusing on too many things at a time, making too many plans that are impossible to follow through on. I focused on what I was good at and listened to people’s wishes and demands.” He put the measuring tape away and returned with a camera. “You know what I always say to young artists who ask me for advice?”

I shook my head because I had no idea.

“Hope is the nightingale that still sings while the night is young. It’s my favorite quote, a reminder that a bad situation, a bad experience, should never stop you from having faith. Eventually, you’ll find the right path.”

He pointed to the white wall, and I walked over, waiting for instructions. From the corner of my eyes, I scanned the far side of the wall, which was covered with pictures of beautiful models, some in lingerie, others wearing clothes. Even among so many beautiful faces, Thalia stood out straight away.

I almost flinched when Grayson touched my chin with surprisingly warm fingers. My skin started to tingle as he gently turned my face to the right, then down.

“Perfect,” he muttered and stepped back. A flash blinded me, and within seconds, a Polaroid photo emerged. He waved it in the air until the white space turned into a colored image of my face. He wrote my fake name on the picture and attached it to the questionnaire with a clip.

“We’re done. You can sit down.” With the file in his hand, he walked over to his desk and slumped into his seat.

“Will you give me a chance?” I asked after a pause.

He began to tap his pen against his lips. I tried to read his expression, but his eyes remained expressionless. Eventually he said, “It depends.” He leaned back with an expression I couldn’t decipher. “Will you go nude?”

I stared at him, perplexed. All the positive thoughts I had harbored about him, were now gone, disappearing like bubbles in the air.

“Thalia said I wouldn’t have to take off my clothes.”

“That’s true.” He nodded, and for the first time, he genuinely smiled as though something amused him. “But there’s this thing with your height.”

What the heck was wrong with my height—or the lack thereof?

I frowned, unsure where the conversation was heading.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, Jenna. You have good proportions, though not model perfect, and a good face, which I’m sure will appeal to some of my clients,” Grayson continued, “but you’re a few inches too short to work as a model.”

My temper flared.

“I’m as tall as Thalia.” I jutted my chin out.

He smiled again, then moved over to me and leaned against the desk again, regarding me coolly. “That might be true, but Thalia’s exotic. Her heritage, part Creole/American and Indian/Italian, is very popular with my clients, so she’s in high demand. You, in turn…I don’t know how to put this nicely…you’re common.”