Page 18 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

"You're in Paris during Spring Fashion Week, Reed," Adam points out with a sigh. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you could have seen this coming."

"Oh, could I?" I stop abruptly, making someone behind me curse as they nearly walk into me.

I've reached the Champs de Mars, walking one of the gravelly pathways towards the Eiffel Tower, watching families picnicking on the grass, friends throwing frisbees and couples sharing a bottle of wine.

Oh God, how I’m longing to get myself a blanket and join them. Just a carefree evening with some people watching in the cool spring air.

"Well," I continue, pinching the bridge of my nose, "what can I say? I trusted you to keep your word. But that puts us where we are now." Right in the middle of another disappointment and a ruined afternoon, to be precise.

"Reed, that’s unfair—"

"No. It’s not ‘unfair,’ it’s reality and you, once more, putting your business over our relationship. Send me the details and I’ll get on my way. But don’t expect me to pick up any other models’ slack for you again. Maybe we both need to re-evaluate how well this ‘my brother is my boss’ relationship is turning out," I interrupt him and immediately hang up the call.

I pick up my pace until I’m almost back at the hotel, trying to calm myself down. Yes, Adam has kept our parents’ company afloat after they died, but at what cost? He’s pulling away from all of us, overworking himself and taking on more responsibility than he could possibly handle—and that’s the only reason I ultimately agreed to pick up this goddamn photoshoot.

But enough is enough. He’s my older brother, and I love him, but damn, it's days like this that I wish for him to have permanently wet sleeves and a hole in his sock, right over the toe, so it sits all uncomfortably, with no chance to adjust it over the day.

The taxi drops me off in a strange little pocket of Paris half an hour later, and something about it feels off right away. I look around, trying to figure it out, but I can’t quite place what kind of neighborhood this is. It’s not really a business district; there are no people in suits or business casual attire rushing by. It’s not a shopping area either, since there are no stores or signs, and it doesn’t feel like a normal residential street. It’s a weird mix of all three, like the city didn’t know what to do with this corner and just let it become whatever it wanted.

The building in front of me looks like it might have been an office once, with a plain, boxy shape and tall, narrow windows. But now, it’s covered in rough, colorful graffiti, some of it beautiful images, some of it just messy writing.

“Is this really the right place?” I mutter, pulling up Adam’s message again and double-checking the map on my phone. The little blue dot lines up with the address, so I guess it must be.

I press a finger against the door, half expecting it to be locked, but it swings open easily. Inside, the courtyard is quiet—too quiet—and a little dusty, plants overgrowing against the facade and between cobblestones, like no one really cares to keep it in shape. I glance around, unsure where to go, until I spot a laminated sign slapped onto the wall with peeling tape. It says “Reception” in plain black letters and points toward a closed door.

For a lack of options, that’s where I head. At this rate, Adam should have sent along instructions on where exactly to go in this strange house.

"He’s here!" the receptionist shouts as soon as I open the door and I jump. Immediately, two people come running out from a room in the back, talking to each other in rapid French.

"Hello, I am Constance," the woman introduces herself off-handedly, like she only just remembered I might not speak French. “Come with me, Reed.”

She’s the poster image forThe Devil Wears Pradafashion type: grey hair combed to perfection, not a wrinkle in the black suit she’s wearing, sharp blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses that make her seem powerful, like the snap of her fingers could crumple the building.

"Okay," I mutter. There’s clearly no need or want for me to introduce myself so I follow her, along with the guy attached to her heels. He must be in his 50s, his grey hair combed over a balding head, and he’s wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, a stark contrast to her perfectionist suit.

I’m going to go out on a limb and suspect he’s the photographer for today.

They bustle me into a changing room, where a bunch of clothes are already hanging on the wall, waiting for me. There are no instructions, but I assume they want me to wear them so I change into them quickly.

When I open the curtain and step out, I’m met with two scrutinizing, and frankly, pretty fucking judgmental, looks from the woman and the photographer, who still hasn’t introduced himself.

"No, no, no," Constance says, then pushes me on a little pedestal, reaching out blindly until someone puts a pincushion in her hand. She switches to English, so at least I understand a bit of what’s going on, but what she’s saying makes me kind of wish she’d just stuck to French.

An assistant, who has appeared out of nowhere, scribbles down every word, nodding furiously, like a living transcription tool that has obligatory compliments built in.

"I want his hair on his face to hide that big forehead. His eyes are really not that pretty, they don’t need to be in focus," she says, bored, like she’s announcing the weather, circling me like a snake inspecting prey. I feel her eyes on every inch of my body and have never been quite so glad for the thick skin I’ve developed over the years, because she seems the type to find every weak spot and have models run out of this weird place crying.

No wonder Dimitri sprained his ankle to get out of this.

"His butt is a little too big, so we need to keep the top long," she continues, pointing at the area in question. "His biceps are not so big, so we need to keep it a little puffier, make the proportions prettier. His collarbones are not terrible, I guess, so the cleavage works out. And for God’s sake, get me some rings to hide those bony fingers."

I gulp, forcing myself to remain quiet even as the assistant starts draping and pinning my clothes until the woman finally gives her approval. Adam will get an earful from me later today. Just focus on that, Reed. Don’t listen to the mean designer.

"That is a lot better," she says with a nod when the clothes are pinned to her liking. "Now off to makeup."

We need to do the makeup with me standing, because there is no way I’m sitting on this pin cushion of an outfit, the poor makeup artist having to get on a little step to reach my face properly. All the while, I keep glancing at my phone that I deposited on the makeup table, waiting for Abby’s message or a call.

Did I seriously misinterpret our time at the Louvre? I was so sure she’d call.

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