Page 2 of Strut

Here goes. I took a couple of steps and my nerves evaporated, just like they always did. The first flash of heat from the lights across my skin and the explosion of music in my ears was electric. Anxiety turned to pleasure. I might not have done much modelling, but I’d been in stage productions since I could walk, and when I’d first stepped on that runway, I felt like I’d come home.ThisI could do. And like the best drug, each turn on the catwalk left me pumped and jonesing for the next.

I paused at the end of the runway and struck a pose, vaguely aware of the nods and the murmuring and the critical eyes, all the while trying to keep an unwavering expression in the face of the scrum of cameras facing me. Front row audience members were known to pass a derogatory note to a neighbour, or exchange a roll of eyes, or a snigger regarding a particular look or model—fashion never lacked for opinions, but you couldn’t let it show. And Rhys had warned me that as a fresh face, I might garner some critique myself.

My stomach had sunk at that. I knew my walk was a little different, contentious even—more of a loose-limbed swagger with a solid foot-hitting-the-ground style that Rhys said made more of a statement than most—not necessarily a good thing on the runway where clothes were the focus. Even Rhys had thought long and hard about finessing it before deciding, with Hunter’s encouragement, to simply let me go and take the risk. The risk seemed warranted when he released videos of me in the build-up to the show, and I suddenly found myself with a skyrocketing Instagram following that I didn’t understand.

This industry was crazy.

I made the turn at the end of the catwalk and headed back, doing a better job of keeping my line this time as I passed Daniel, and then I was through to the backstage and on to the next change. The rest of the show went by in a blur until the next thing I knew, Daniel and I were flanking Rhys as he did his penultimate walk with the audience on their feet. It was all over bar the crowd of friends and family and media and industry well-wishers who surged backstage to be part of the moment.

I was hiding behind a rack of clothes with a glass of champagne and chatting with another model when I felt Hunter approach. I didn’t even need to look. The irritating man pinged my tuning fork at ten metres. Every. Damn. Time.

“Congratulations,” Hunter’s low voice slid over my shoulder, along with a whiff of his trademark fresh and spicy cologne, and I worked hard not to shiver.

Oh god, just what I needed. Not.

The model I was talking to glanced at Hunter in surprise, then winked and patted my hand. “Catch you later, Alec.”

I almost begged him to stay. Hunter Donovan—best friend of Rhys, epic fashion photographer, and all-round sexy hottie—was already the subject of way too many of my fantasies and cold showers as it was, and I needed exactly zero time alone with the man to fuel any more.

It wasn’t that I disliked the man. Hunter had been super good to me with the modelling gig. He’d schooled me on all the basics I needed to know in order to woo the camera—free with his advice and a whole lot of common sense. He was kind and generous with his time and had been nothing but professional. I owed him as much as I did Rhys, but I might also have been just a teensy bit smitten with the dark-haired enigmatic photographer. Maybe. Probably. Who was I kidding? All. The. Fucking. Way.

It was my own damn fault. Hunter was an unapologetic player, and yet there’d been no invitations to drinks, no offers of lifts home, nothing to suggest he was interested in me beyond a casual friendship at all. If anything, he seemed careful to keep things simple and friendly between us, even if we chatted as easily as if we’d known each other for years and shared a similar warped sense of humour. And even if Ididthink I’d caught a few appreciative glances and a certain considering look in those beautiful brown eyes that made me wonder if he returned my interest.

As it turned out, not so much. At least not in the this-could-be-something-beyond-a-quick-fuck-o-meter scale.

I should’ve left things alone. But no. After spotting him in an Auckland club after a few too many drinks, I’d started up a conversation, added in a little embarrassing flirting, and before I knew it, there was an insanely hot kiss, followed by some mutual groping and a bit of stellar frotting in the back hallway. It had been the hottest experience of my life, even if I’d immediately wished for the ground to swallow me up when I came in Hunter’s hand in under a minute flat.

Unfortunately, it didn’t appear to have the same effect on Hunter who’d refused my offer to return the favour before making his exit like his tail feathers were on fire and a mumbled apology that he had to leave. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover how I felt, and we’d never spoken of it since.

A quick hook-up in a club did not a relationship make. Go figure. But regardless of the bruise to my heart and ego, I got it, kind of. Hunter had never pretended to be anything he wasn’t. I’d known that and gone for him anyway. Total dipshit move.

But there was no escaping the cool distancing that happened afterward. Hunter was friendly enough, but no more than he was to all his other models, and that stung. If only my crush had died the death I’d wanted it to, just as quickly. But no, that sucker had staying power. The trouble was, I really liked Hunter. We’d gotten on well, and even though it wasn’t his fault I’d fallen like a nut from a tree at his feet, he could’ve been nicer about it.

Fuckity, fucking, fuck.

Lesson learned and I needed to be a grown-up. With that in mind, I schooled my expression and turned to face him, a polite smile in place. “Thank you. But Rhys is a brilliant designer. It doesn’t take much to make him look good.”

Hunter said nothing, his gaze zeroed in on mine with a look that turned my knees to jelly. “It’s more than that.” He stepped closer. “You’re very special, Alec. And I’m not just talking about the modelling.”

My mouth fell open and I snapped it shut because, fuck, I knew that look. Irememberedthat look. Warmth curled in my balls—

No, no, no.This wasn’t happening. Not again.

Hunter continued. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what happened that night at the club. I wondered if maybe...”

Warning bells went off in my head.Danger, Will Robinson.“The club was nothing,” I blurted. “A bit of fun, right?” My gaze slid over Hunter’s shoulder to where Kip was watching us with a curious smile. “We both had too much to drink. Look, I, um, I have to go.” I took a step back. “I need to find Rhys.” And with that, I turned and almost ran into Devon Sandler—the scout for Cage Talent, one of New York’s leading model agencies.

“Ah, it’s Alec, right?” Devon extended his hand.

“Yes.” I shook it, grateful for the interruption. Behind Devon, Hunter gave me a thumbs up, but the smile that went with it didn’t reach his eyes and I watched his back as he crossed the room and left through the far door.

“Please, take this.” Devon handed me his card. The handsome forty-something silver fox hadcool and suavedown to an art form. “I liked what I saw tonight,” he said, running his gaze over me and then nodding like he’d decided something. “Would you have any problem relocating to New York?”

My eyebrows hit my hairline and my mouth ran dry. “New York?” I gaped.

Devon nodded with a smile.

Holy shit. “I, um, no... I mean, I guess. I have a job here but...” I trailed off because what the fuck did you say when someone offered you the chance of a lifetime?

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