Page 12 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“Yes, I’m sorry I said that.”

“Don’t be. Beauty is part of the business. But we’re looking for something more. A sense of confidence, a spark, something that makes a model unforgettable in a single frame. The ones who stand out today will be shortlisted for the cover and editorial spreads.”

I nod, feeling a bit more confident. “And once you’ve chosen, what happens next?”

“Contracts. Some models have long-term agreements with us. Others are booked per shoot. Their pay depends on experience, exclusivity, and usage rights. A cover model, for example, earns more because their image drives sales. If we want to use the shots for more than just the magazine—ads, social media, promotional campaigns—that’s a separate negotiation.”

I take notes furiously in my notebook, pausing briefly to look at him. “And what if a model doesn’t meet your expectations? Do you have a plan B?”

“We always have a plan B. But I prefer to trust my instincts. I believe in giving people a chance to prove themselves.”

Spencer’s eyes never leave mine; he’s caught me in a snare, and heat spreads through me. The tension between us is palpable, a mix of professional challenge and underlying attraction.

Speaking of… I need to think about my job, so I change the subject. I take a sip of my coffee, then look up at him. “So, walk me through it. What does it take to plan a shoot like this? Or an entire edition of the magazine?”

He nods toward the group of models huddled near the ballroom door. “It all starts with a vision. For the holiday issue, we’re selling more than fashion. We’re selling a feeling. Holiday magic. Romance. The kind of winter magic people dream about.”He gestures slightly. “Quebec City is the perfect backdrop. The lights, the history, the charm—it all feeds into the story we want to tell.”

I jot down more notes. “And today?”

He exhales slowly as if shifting gears in his mind. “Today is the day we decide who makes it to the final shoot. We’re looking for presence and versatility, something that makes a model unforgettable in a single frame. The ones who stand out will be shortlisted for the cover and editorial spreads.”

I watch as one of the models shifts her weight, adjusting the drape of her coat in a tall mirror set against the wall. “And the rest of the magazine? How far ahead do you plan all of this?”

Spencer smirks. “You’re already thinking like an editor.”

Heat creeps up my neck, but I hold his gaze.

“We’re always working ahead,”he continues. “Right now, December is in production, January’s plan is being finalized, and we’re mapping out spring. But the holiday edition is a big deal. It’s aspirational. People want to feel the season in the pages as they flip through them. The right cover, the right images—they have to make someone stop in a checkout line or pause mid-scroll.”His eyes flick toward me. “That’s why this weekend matters. Quebec City is giving us everything we need.”

I study him hard for a second. “And what about you?”I ask before I can stop myself. “Areyougetting everything you need?”

His lips curve, slow and deliberate. “That depends, Shelby. Are you?”

Before I think of a response, he turns to refill his coffee, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. It feels like a dance, this push and pull, a testing of boundaries. And I’m starting to realize I enjoy the challenge, the thrill of the chase. And the hell of it is, I thinkI’mthe chaser, not him.

Maybe?

Have our roles flipped, and I’m completely oblivious? He is a billionaire playboy, after all. This could just be another game to him.

My head begins to reel because it all feels too comfortable and happening too fast.

“So,”I say, taking a deep breath and changing direction again. “Where exactly do you want me during the photo shoot? Watching the models work, observing, watching you make decisions? Back in my room?”

He turns to me, his expression surprisingly earnest. “Everywhere, Shelby. I want you to see it all. The good, the bad, the messy. I’m not interested in a puff piece. I want you to understand what we do here, how we create magic. And…”he pauses, his gaze locking with mine, “…I want you to understandme.”

The intensity of his gaze makes my heart skip a beat. And we’re right back to where we were a mere moment ago. Maybe at the same spot we started from last night in the bar.There’sa vulnerability in his eyes, a genuine desire to be seen and understood, at odds with his carefully crafted public persona. And it’s disarming. I want to peel back the layers to discover the man beneath the wealthy, flirtatious façade.

“Consider me interested.”

He nods.

I wait.Surelythis moment calls for more of a response.

The pull is palpable andobvious, but I ignore the sensation and head toward the ballroom, knowing he’ll follow.

Beyond theheavysound-proof door, chaos greets my senses. Bright lights shine in one corner, and I hear the incessant clicking of professional photography mixed with the sounds of assistants scurrying, music playing in the background, stylists rushing models onto sets, all speaking a mix of rapid French and English. I try to stay put but notice I keep side-stepping to avoid finding myself in somebody’s way, like watching a really good dance routine at a wedding, Istep back quickly from a model hurrying in front of me.

Spencer’s warm, steadying hand brushes against mine as he joins me. I stumble a little less and recover faster, but my pulse does its best not to let me forget that a man I want very much is within breathing distance.“Sorry,”I mouth to him quietly over all the buzz.

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