Page 112 of Flare

“I was pissed.” Rafe looked up again. “But watching you drag your lip around all week has turned out to be legions worse. Jack and Serena are onlypartof the reason for your doom-and-gloom mood. Don’t even try to argue. And for all that I don’t understand why Rhys jumped ship, I get that it’s likely more complicated than I think. So, benefit of the doubt awarded.” He fired the paper plane note my way, and I plucked it mid-air.

“I’m sure he’ll be relieved,” I said sourly.

Rafe sighed and leaned forward on his knees, looking unexpectedly tired. “Rhys is good for you, Beck. You’re different with him. More... confident, more hopeful than I’ve ever seen you. Hell, you shaved that fucking beard for him. But whatever you decide to do, just shit or get off the pot, will you? Talk or don’t talk, there is no try.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yoda, you ain’t. But for once, you’re right.” I grabbed my phone and sent Rhys a text.Thanks for the passes. Jack seems to have turned a corner. Good luck for the rehearsal tomorrow. Can we talk on Sunday? Your place?

I’d no sooner put my phone on the desk when it buzzed.

Yes, please. And thank you.

I tried not to read too much into the heart emoji that ended his message, but yeah, total fucking fail. And before I could think better of it, I replied with the same and threw my phone on the desk.

Rafe had it in his hand before I could stop him, standing and holding it out of reach of my flailing hand as he read the text with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Awwwww, you used an emoji?” His hand went to his heart as he pulled a ridiculously sappy face. “That is so fucking sweet. My little boy is in love.”

“Shut your cakehole.” I finally managed to grab the phone and slid it into my pocket.

He laughed. “Well, that seals it. I am the yodiest Yoda that ever fucking yoda-ed.”

I groaned. “Somebody please kill me now.”

* * *

Rhys

“Come on, people. I’m looking for an expression that saysfuck me now, notsend me a damn email.” I switched from standing at the far end of the runway to stalking up and down the sides. “Brendon, longer steps. I want you floating. And shake out those hands. Geoffrey, you’re out of order. You should be two back in the line. How the hell did that happen? I know you’re not wearing the actual designs, but for fuck’s sake.”Goddammit. “Taylor?”

My Fashion Week assigned assistant slash general and very underpaid dogsbody, poked her head from behind the curtain and waved an apology. “Sorry. My mistake.”

I bit back the undeserved sarcasm teetering on my tongue and remembered Taylor was as shiny new as most of my models. An intern from fashion school, hired cheap by the organisers for us newbie designers. Not to mention, we were both exhausted having been at the event centre six hours and counting.

I cast a helpless look to a fellow newbie designer, and he rolled his eyes in sympathy. We were both in the same tight spot, unseasoned models and inexperienced assistants. He gave me a hesitant thumbs up that was worth less than the manicure it came with. I scrubbed a hand over my face and tried to talk myself down. Everything would be fine on the night.

Wouldn’t it?

Because based on this morning’s performance, my show was going to be an embarrassing disaster. As a young-gun invitee I didn’t get my first pick of the model line-up from the general call or even get to keep the ones I’d thought I’d secured. If a big-name designer changed their mind and wanted one of my models instead and the time slot was too close for the model to work both, guess who took priority. It had happened twice in the last week already.

And it wasn’t like I had the luxury of a dedicated casting director to find alternatives like the big designers. I had to somehow squeeze that job around everything else, and it was showing. Cracks were starting to appear, and with only a week before the show, I had too much riding on this to fuck it up.

“Jeremy, cheat to the left more on the way back, and what the fuck is that you’re doing with your mouth? You look like a twink who’s just walked in on bears night.” An image of Beck sprang to mind, which I really could’ve done without.

“And Dale, what the hell was that?” I groaned as one of the models tripped and almost went down. “They’re only two-inch heels, man, not fucking stilettos. Find your balance.”

“Having a few teething problems?” Shayne appeared at my shoulder, his critical gaze locked on the catwalk. “Holy shit, there’s a ton of new blood there, and it shows. Poor you. And there’s more than a few that have taken the HWP a little too seriously, if you get my drift?”

I cringed at height-weight proportion criticism. “I don’t like my models too skinny.”

He snorted. “Just as well. You want me to offer them a bit of direction?” He eyed me not unkindly, but the message was clear.You need my help.

I gritted my teeth and said nothing because he was probably right. The line-updidlack experience, although I wouldn’t trade Alec for Shayne to get it. But a few accomplished models sprinkled here and there not only gave strength to the whole catwalk but provided a wealth of support for the younger ones to draw on. When that support was in place, everyone felt safe and everyone relaxed. And relaxed models, having fun and doing what they loved, were the backbone of a successful show.

“Please.” The word came out a little less grateful than intended, so I added, “I’d appreciate it.”

Shayne simply smiled—a smile that made me want to slap him because it said he knew exactly what I was thinking. That I was completely fucked and needed help.

Whatever.It was the truth. I called the models over and let Shayne bestow some words of wisdom and demonstrate with a couple of laps of the runway what I was actually looking for, every eye glued to his elegant form. And on the next run through, things looked a whole lot better, and as much as I hated to admit it, those ten minutes with Shayne might’ve just saved my bacon.

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