Pink, page 12
It was a risk she was willing to take.
For girls like the one standing beside the security guard with a magazine featuring Gigi’s face on the front clutched at her chest like it was a lifeline. Because she didn’t want those girls who idolized her like she was some God to think that this was all normal or sunshine and roses.
Because a lot of the time, it wasn’t.
It was lonely.
Hard.
She sacrificed everything.
“Gigi, come on,” her assistant called, already inside the hotel.
She waved a hand, not even bothering to give Kayla more. If anybody understood her need to stop and speak with fans—like this girl who probably did everything she could to be outside of this hotel today to even get a glimpse of Gigi arriving—it was Kayla. Because a lot of the time, it was her handling all of Gigi’s social media accounts and interacting under her name and brand. Not because Gigi didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.
Sometimes, the agency didn’t want her on it. Other times, it was what was best for her mental health. Social media was a lot of lies—a lot of perfection airbrushed to the point of insanity with staged locations and friends and bullshit. It got tiring.
“Oh, my God—hi!” the girl with the magazine rushed to say when she realized Gigi was coming her way. “You don’t have to sign anything I just wanted to see you and—”
“It’s okay,” Gigi interjected, already seeing the tears well up in the girl’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Lia. I’m from Brooklyn. I really love you. You inspired me to smile more.”
Lia did just that.
The small gap between her two front teeth had Gigi smiling to show off her own—a feature that despite the designer who controlled her life for two years wanted to change, she held her ground and refused with the threat of breaching contract. They let it go. Eventually.
“I wanna be just like you,” Lia said, handing over the magazine when Gigi pulled a mini-Sharpie marker from the back pocket of her jeans. She always kept one on hand. It was good policy in her business.
The comment made her pause.
She still signed the magazine, and then handed it to the teenager with another smile, but it wasn’t as big this time. “Hey,” she said, meeting the girl’s gaze, “don’t aspire to be me—I’m already here. Show them all you. I promise you’ll be happier that way.”
Lia glanced down at the magazine and the small print under the headline of Gigi’s name and the article title. Her words in quotes had never really been meant for her team but everybody. Anyone who looked to Gigi as the one thing that made them happy and expected her to always be that for them.
That wasn’t real life.
Magazine her wasn’t her.
“Thank you,” Lia said.
“You are so welcome. Love ya, kid.”
That was punctuated by her making the peace sign. Something that had become synonymous with her, not the brand or the agency or the clothes or the pictures. Just Gigi. The cheeky love ya, kid and her two fingers spread wide when she put them high. On a runway, she could make that peace sign, and the whole crowd would give it back. Her comments on socials were flooded with that emoji.
Peace.
Happiness.
Love.
She lived it for the public but hoped that someday she might truly find it.
• • •
“Almost there,” Kayla said to Gigi’s right in the back of the town car. The car and driver, provided by the agency to keep her safe and allow her to travel within the city while she was there for the next couple of months, was just another thing she had learned to deal with. Rarely was she given the opportunity or ability to do things alone now. Even driving, whether it was for work or pleasure, was a task given to someone else. “Another five minutes.”
“Perfect.”
But it wasn’t.
She hadn’t even bothered to open her eyes at Kayla’s declaration to see where they currently were in New York City. Manhattan, that was for certain. But where, exactly, she couldn’t say because she just didn’t give a shit. That, and the pounding headache starting to form behind her eyes because Riccardo Delavange, owner and designer of the largest lingerie brand in the world, decided his entire office building needed to have the brightest white walls she had ever seen. Complimented, of course, by floor-to-ceiling windows in every fucking room.
Lights, Gigi could deal with.
She learned how.
“They were pleased with your measurements for the fitting—one good thing.”
Gigi hummed a noise under her breath, daring to crack open her eyes. The bright daylight was made slightly more bearable by the dark, tinted windows in the rear of the car. It did nothing for the glare coming in from the front, though. She much preferred for her driver to use the SUV with the divider between the front and back seats so that she could pretend like she was alone. Even if she wasn’t.
Too much natural light and white color, however, was something her brain just couldn’t seem to handle without giving her a raging fucking migraine. But she kept her mouth shut over the period of the two-hour fitting at the Delavange offices because she was the model headlining the show, and if her waist deviated more than an inch, according to the asshole in charge, then it would throw off the balance of the huge angel wings she would be wearing to open and then close the show.
A back piece that weighed thirty pounds and was three feet taller than she was in the six-inch heels she would be wearing down the runway for Fashion Week. While the wings would go on over her arms and shoulders, a belt had also been made to fit around her waist, too. But to not take away from the fantasy, according to the team, she couldn’t afford to put on weight because then they would have to add to the belt.
A bunch of bullshit, really.
It was also her life in a nutshell.
“You okay?” Kayla asked. “This next appointment is just … are you sure you don’t want me to get you something? I can get it by—”
“No, I’m good.”
“Gigi, don’t be a hero.”
“Kayla, I’m fine.”
To prove it, she even opened her eyes and turned her head on the leather headrest to look her assistant in the face as she smiled. Gigi dared anyone to see her smile and tell her it was fake. She could sell the lie like nobody knew.
“You sure?” her pixie-like, red-headed assistant asked.
Gigi shrugged. “Does it matter? Another normal day in paradise, babe.”
Kayla sighed. “Yeah, I know, Gi.”
A normal day in Gigi’s life didn’t look very normal at all. She could easily go straight from a four-hour flight to a six-hour shoot or a fitting for some upcoming event, and from there, an interview or a meeting with any number of people. She had quickly learned that despite the fact everything revolved around her being there for those events, she was just a piece of the puzzle that other people moved from point A to point B to make it all work.
Her presence made money.
Simple as that.
To make it easier, she just followed directions. She accepted that her assistant had a better grasp of her daily schedule than she did. Time was cash but also, the only way she could covet any of that time for herself was to get through the mountain of responsibilities that came with her career as efficiently—and always with a smile—as possible.
It was exhausting.
In the business, it didn’t take very long for a model to realize there were plenty of people waiting in the shadows to step forward and provide whatever was needed to keep someone at the top of their game. Cocaine was a favorite of a lot of models—it kept them way up but also thin as fuck which was a must. Except the drug use didn’t just stop at keeping someone awake and smiling for shoots and runways in their world.
No, it was everywhere. At the parties. In to-go tumblers full of iced coffee. Backstage between outfit changes.
Gigi learned fast that almost every model she knew was just medicating to get through it; to be happy or whatever they needed it for that day. Molly. Liquor. Pills. It didn’t matter what it was … nobody put it in their body because they wanted to get high … they just did it because if they didn’t, then life was a lot more difficult to deal with.
Except her.
She wasn’t perfect—she had dabbled a lot with different drugs in the first couple of years after moving to Paris. It was almost a cultural thing inside the modeling world. Expected, even. Oh, she didn’t want to sit on a tiny swing while she hung thirty feet in the air over a pool because she just spent twelve hours on a red-eye flight coming back from a brand trip?
Here, she was told by a former handler, take this pill. Your day will get a whole lot better.
And it had.
It also came to an end eventually.
If someone didn’t keep medicating to stay happy or able to function, then they stopped being any of things or able to do anything altogether. That terrified Gigi because she watched all around her as her peers fell into those same traps again and again.
“What is the next appointment today, anyway?” Gigi asked.
That question sent Kayla’s brown gaze dropping to the phone in her hand. “Uh … Marla told me you knew about this. Something special for the agency—they have that campaign coming up with the major league baseball team?”
“The New York Revvers, yeah. So, what does that have to do with today?”
Because that campaign wasn’t even going to be shot for another month or more. She would show up, a rack of clothes would be waiting for her to wear and change through the process of the shoot, and then her check was signed over. She might do one or two media things if they asked it of her, but that was usually it.
“Marla said she explained this,” Kalya muttered. “Listen—”
What did her agent have to do with shit?
“What’s the appointment?”
“Lunch with Jensen Todrey.”
Why did that name ring a bell?
“The owner of the Revvers?”
Kayla gave her a look. “Yeah.”
“Since when do I do lunch with baseball team’s owner just because I’m a model in an upcoming campaign?”
A heavy exhale answered that.
“Marla said—”
“Fuck Marla,” Gigi snapped although she instantly regretted it when Kayla flinched at her burst of anger. “Sorry—it’s not you. I know, you just … do what you’re told.”
“I really thought you knew.”
“So, what, did he like … get the lawyers to sneak some shit in the contract, or what?”
“Kinda seemed like he talked directly to Marla. I don’t know, she was down for it. Said it was standard at your level in the game. And she’s not wrong. Look at Tara Franco’s social feed for the last year. The girl has been around the globe on the arms of some of the richest men in the world. No isn’t a word people with money usually hear, Gi. You know that better than anyone.”
She did, but … “I’m not for sale, though.”
Kayla cocked her head to the side a bit, and then asked softly, “But aren’t you … in a way? Think about it, Gi. They’ve been selling the fantasy of you for years. Surprise, someone’s decided to tell them to put their money where their mouth is.”
Gigi didn’t believe that.
She couldn’t.
“So … lunch?” she asked.
Kayla shrugged. “Guess so.”
“What, is he expecting to talk about the campaign or—”
“From what I know, he’s having a business meeting. You’re just going to be there with him for it.”
Oh, really?
Perfect.
Just like arm candy.
• • •
Plastering a smile on her face because of habit and nothing more, Gigi had a harder time keeping her composure under control as she was directed to the table in a semi-private section of the restaurant that she hadn’t even bothered to catch the name of on the way in. She was only doing this lunch date with the Revver’s team owner because she didn’t have enough time to rip Marla a new asshole about it and get it canceled.
She would, though.
“Here we are,” the girl who had greeted her at the entrance said. “Mr. Todrey and … guest. Miss Gigi Rey. I will be right back with a menu for you.”
Gigi gave a little laugh, not even bothering to greet the men who had stood from the table yet. “Don’t bother. I don’t eat in front of others.”
It was a lie. Not the first time she told it, either.
It also wasn’t uncommon in her business for models to use that exact excuse to get out of eating a meal they knew would fuck up their diet or otherwise. So, if any of these people had any familiarity with her line of work, it wouldn’t be an unusual statement. She just didn’t care to eat with these men when she hadn’t agreed to lunch in the first place.
“Sure,” the woman replied. “A drink, then?”
“Yeah, why not? Whatever’s on the top shelf for wine today—bring the bottle. On the tab, of course. I’m not paying for this lunch, right?”
That time, she did look to the men at the table. Only one she recognized, the black-haired man in his early forties standing on the left. The shorter of the two with brown eyes that locked on hers and didn’t let go. He smiled—charming and warm—with a nod.
“Of course, you’re not paying. Top-shelf wine, please.”
“Cabernet, if possible,” Gigi added with a wave of her fingers.
“Right away.”
Just like that, the woman left.
Gigi hadn’t bothered to ask her name, and she didn’t regret the choice, either. Too many people passed through her life daily to be on a first-name basis with them. She was willing to do the same for the other man waiting at the table beside Jensen, if only because he was just here for a business meeting as Kayla had explained, but the baseball team owner had different plans about their introduction.
“Marco, this is—”
“Gigi Rey,” the taller, younger, blond man said. He had to be mid-thirties. By all standards, handsome. But so was his counterpart, and the wealthy usually did carry an aura about of some unobtainable standard. Whether it was beauty or success or otherwise, those around them tended to sense it. Gigi was no exception and this man radiated it. “I know exactly who she is, Jensen.”
“Yes, well—”
“Do you know what she brings with her? Attention. Media. Publicity. I don’t think she can even walk down the fucking street without someone recognizing her face today. How fast do you think it would take before paps were chasing her down the block, Jensen?”
“I wanted to show you what I was capable of, and here she is. We should sit down and continue to discuss our possible arrangement, don’t you think?” Jensen asked.
The two men shared a look. The man named Marco, however, was clearly more agitated than Jensen Todrey in that moment. Evident by the clenching of his fists at his sides and the vein starting to pop out in his forehead.
Well …
It looked like Gigi wasn’t the only one displeased about this lunch.
Good.
“There a problem?” Gigi asked. Then, to Marco, she said with a smile, “And anywhere from ten to twenty minutes depending on how close a paparazzo is to my location. A fan tags me in a story, and they’re already on their way, trust that. Less outside of the states, but here it’s … life.”
It was also why, despite feeling like America was home, Gigi preferred living out of the country while her notoriety was high. It was just easier to manage the expectations of her fame that way. Not that she thought these men cared at all about those details.
Marco gave Jensen a very pointed look. “There you are.”
“Listen, it’s a delicate thing, I know. But she’s here.”
“I can see that.”
“What does that tell you?”
The blond man sighed, and he gave Gigi another glance. Despite their well-dressed appearance, both men in their suits with groomed hair swept back in tidy styles, and the fact she knew this had been all set up so it should be safe, something seemed off. The lunch hadn’t even begun yet, but already she could tell something wasn’t right.
“Excuse us,” Jensen said with a chuckle, dragging Gigi from her thoughts in an instant. He stuck out a hand, and out of habit, she did the same. The second his hand found hers, he stepped closer and brought her fingers up to his lips for a quick kiss that she hadn’t wanted at all. “Thank you for agreeing to this lunch.”
I didn’t, she thought.
A small part of her screamed to keep quiet.
“Sit,” Jensen added quickly, “and I’m sure your wine will be here any moment. Don’t mind us … we’re just discussing the benefit of our businesses and how they might work better together.”
“How do I factor into that, exactly?”
Because wasn’t that what this felt like?
Jensen laughed and released her hand. “Don’t worry about that, Gigi Rey. Just keep smiling. It’s worth a lot more than you realize.”
What did that mean?
She took the seat pulled out for her and with the two men facing her, it put their backs to the half partition wall that separated their semi-private section from the main floor. She might have paid attention to whatever Marco was currently saying to Jensen at the table, but it was the flash of blue eyes just beyond the partition that held her attention.
Every bit of it.
It was him.
Those eyes.
She’d know them anywhere.
He’d turned around so all she could see was the back of his head, and the way his buzz cut faded from skin to black hair from the nape of his neck upward. But then, he turned to his left, glancing over his shoulder once more and looked right at her.
The facial hair was new.
It was her first thought.
Not a bad look on him, though.
It had been five and a half years since she laid eyes on him, heard his voice, or spent a night in his bed. Yet, she never forgot it. Or him. Not for one single fucking second. How could she when he had been the last person who really knew her—without even knowing her at all—before she became this? That short time, those nights she spent with him … he didn’t know it, couldn’t possibly, but it meant the world to her.
For girls like the one standing beside the security guard with a magazine featuring Gigi’s face on the front clutched at her chest like it was a lifeline. Because she didn’t want those girls who idolized her like she was some God to think that this was all normal or sunshine and roses.
Because a lot of the time, it wasn’t.
It was lonely.
Hard.
She sacrificed everything.
“Gigi, come on,” her assistant called, already inside the hotel.
She waved a hand, not even bothering to give Kayla more. If anybody understood her need to stop and speak with fans—like this girl who probably did everything she could to be outside of this hotel today to even get a glimpse of Gigi arriving—it was Kayla. Because a lot of the time, it was her handling all of Gigi’s social media accounts and interacting under her name and brand. Not because Gigi didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.
Sometimes, the agency didn’t want her on it. Other times, it was what was best for her mental health. Social media was a lot of lies—a lot of perfection airbrushed to the point of insanity with staged locations and friends and bullshit. It got tiring.
“Oh, my God—hi!” the girl with the magazine rushed to say when she realized Gigi was coming her way. “You don’t have to sign anything I just wanted to see you and—”
“It’s okay,” Gigi interjected, already seeing the tears well up in the girl’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Lia. I’m from Brooklyn. I really love you. You inspired me to smile more.”
Lia did just that.
The small gap between her two front teeth had Gigi smiling to show off her own—a feature that despite the designer who controlled her life for two years wanted to change, she held her ground and refused with the threat of breaching contract. They let it go. Eventually.
“I wanna be just like you,” Lia said, handing over the magazine when Gigi pulled a mini-Sharpie marker from the back pocket of her jeans. She always kept one on hand. It was good policy in her business.
The comment made her pause.
She still signed the magazine, and then handed it to the teenager with another smile, but it wasn’t as big this time. “Hey,” she said, meeting the girl’s gaze, “don’t aspire to be me—I’m already here. Show them all you. I promise you’ll be happier that way.”
Lia glanced down at the magazine and the small print under the headline of Gigi’s name and the article title. Her words in quotes had never really been meant for her team but everybody. Anyone who looked to Gigi as the one thing that made them happy and expected her to always be that for them.
That wasn’t real life.
Magazine her wasn’t her.
“Thank you,” Lia said.
“You are so welcome. Love ya, kid.”
That was punctuated by her making the peace sign. Something that had become synonymous with her, not the brand or the agency or the clothes or the pictures. Just Gigi. The cheeky love ya, kid and her two fingers spread wide when she put them high. On a runway, she could make that peace sign, and the whole crowd would give it back. Her comments on socials were flooded with that emoji.
Peace.
Happiness.
Love.
She lived it for the public but hoped that someday she might truly find it.
• • •
“Almost there,” Kayla said to Gigi’s right in the back of the town car. The car and driver, provided by the agency to keep her safe and allow her to travel within the city while she was there for the next couple of months, was just another thing she had learned to deal with. Rarely was she given the opportunity or ability to do things alone now. Even driving, whether it was for work or pleasure, was a task given to someone else. “Another five minutes.”
“Perfect.”
But it wasn’t.
She hadn’t even bothered to open her eyes at Kayla’s declaration to see where they currently were in New York City. Manhattan, that was for certain. But where, exactly, she couldn’t say because she just didn’t give a shit. That, and the pounding headache starting to form behind her eyes because Riccardo Delavange, owner and designer of the largest lingerie brand in the world, decided his entire office building needed to have the brightest white walls she had ever seen. Complimented, of course, by floor-to-ceiling windows in every fucking room.
Lights, Gigi could deal with.
She learned how.
“They were pleased with your measurements for the fitting—one good thing.”
Gigi hummed a noise under her breath, daring to crack open her eyes. The bright daylight was made slightly more bearable by the dark, tinted windows in the rear of the car. It did nothing for the glare coming in from the front, though. She much preferred for her driver to use the SUV with the divider between the front and back seats so that she could pretend like she was alone. Even if she wasn’t.
Too much natural light and white color, however, was something her brain just couldn’t seem to handle without giving her a raging fucking migraine. But she kept her mouth shut over the period of the two-hour fitting at the Delavange offices because she was the model headlining the show, and if her waist deviated more than an inch, according to the asshole in charge, then it would throw off the balance of the huge angel wings she would be wearing to open and then close the show.
A back piece that weighed thirty pounds and was three feet taller than she was in the six-inch heels she would be wearing down the runway for Fashion Week. While the wings would go on over her arms and shoulders, a belt had also been made to fit around her waist, too. But to not take away from the fantasy, according to the team, she couldn’t afford to put on weight because then they would have to add to the belt.
A bunch of bullshit, really.
It was also her life in a nutshell.
“You okay?” Kayla asked. “This next appointment is just … are you sure you don’t want me to get you something? I can get it by—”
“No, I’m good.”
“Gigi, don’t be a hero.”
“Kayla, I’m fine.”
To prove it, she even opened her eyes and turned her head on the leather headrest to look her assistant in the face as she smiled. Gigi dared anyone to see her smile and tell her it was fake. She could sell the lie like nobody knew.
“You sure?” her pixie-like, red-headed assistant asked.
Gigi shrugged. “Does it matter? Another normal day in paradise, babe.”
Kayla sighed. “Yeah, I know, Gi.”
A normal day in Gigi’s life didn’t look very normal at all. She could easily go straight from a four-hour flight to a six-hour shoot or a fitting for some upcoming event, and from there, an interview or a meeting with any number of people. She had quickly learned that despite the fact everything revolved around her being there for those events, she was just a piece of the puzzle that other people moved from point A to point B to make it all work.
Her presence made money.
Simple as that.
To make it easier, she just followed directions. She accepted that her assistant had a better grasp of her daily schedule than she did. Time was cash but also, the only way she could covet any of that time for herself was to get through the mountain of responsibilities that came with her career as efficiently—and always with a smile—as possible.
It was exhausting.
In the business, it didn’t take very long for a model to realize there were plenty of people waiting in the shadows to step forward and provide whatever was needed to keep someone at the top of their game. Cocaine was a favorite of a lot of models—it kept them way up but also thin as fuck which was a must. Except the drug use didn’t just stop at keeping someone awake and smiling for shoots and runways in their world.
No, it was everywhere. At the parties. In to-go tumblers full of iced coffee. Backstage between outfit changes.
Gigi learned fast that almost every model she knew was just medicating to get through it; to be happy or whatever they needed it for that day. Molly. Liquor. Pills. It didn’t matter what it was … nobody put it in their body because they wanted to get high … they just did it because if they didn’t, then life was a lot more difficult to deal with.
Except her.
She wasn’t perfect—she had dabbled a lot with different drugs in the first couple of years after moving to Paris. It was almost a cultural thing inside the modeling world. Expected, even. Oh, she didn’t want to sit on a tiny swing while she hung thirty feet in the air over a pool because she just spent twelve hours on a red-eye flight coming back from a brand trip?
Here, she was told by a former handler, take this pill. Your day will get a whole lot better.
And it had.
It also came to an end eventually.
If someone didn’t keep medicating to stay happy or able to function, then they stopped being any of things or able to do anything altogether. That terrified Gigi because she watched all around her as her peers fell into those same traps again and again.
“What is the next appointment today, anyway?” Gigi asked.
That question sent Kayla’s brown gaze dropping to the phone in her hand. “Uh … Marla told me you knew about this. Something special for the agency—they have that campaign coming up with the major league baseball team?”
“The New York Revvers, yeah. So, what does that have to do with today?”
Because that campaign wasn’t even going to be shot for another month or more. She would show up, a rack of clothes would be waiting for her to wear and change through the process of the shoot, and then her check was signed over. She might do one or two media things if they asked it of her, but that was usually it.
“Marla said she explained this,” Kalya muttered. “Listen—”
What did her agent have to do with shit?
“What’s the appointment?”
“Lunch with Jensen Todrey.”
Why did that name ring a bell?
“The owner of the Revvers?”
Kayla gave her a look. “Yeah.”
“Since when do I do lunch with baseball team’s owner just because I’m a model in an upcoming campaign?”
A heavy exhale answered that.
“Marla said—”
“Fuck Marla,” Gigi snapped although she instantly regretted it when Kayla flinched at her burst of anger. “Sorry—it’s not you. I know, you just … do what you’re told.”
“I really thought you knew.”
“So, what, did he like … get the lawyers to sneak some shit in the contract, or what?”
“Kinda seemed like he talked directly to Marla. I don’t know, she was down for it. Said it was standard at your level in the game. And she’s not wrong. Look at Tara Franco’s social feed for the last year. The girl has been around the globe on the arms of some of the richest men in the world. No isn’t a word people with money usually hear, Gi. You know that better than anyone.”
She did, but … “I’m not for sale, though.”
Kayla cocked her head to the side a bit, and then asked softly, “But aren’t you … in a way? Think about it, Gi. They’ve been selling the fantasy of you for years. Surprise, someone’s decided to tell them to put their money where their mouth is.”
Gigi didn’t believe that.
She couldn’t.
“So … lunch?” she asked.
Kayla shrugged. “Guess so.”
“What, is he expecting to talk about the campaign or—”
“From what I know, he’s having a business meeting. You’re just going to be there with him for it.”
Oh, really?
Perfect.
Just like arm candy.
• • •
Plastering a smile on her face because of habit and nothing more, Gigi had a harder time keeping her composure under control as she was directed to the table in a semi-private section of the restaurant that she hadn’t even bothered to catch the name of on the way in. She was only doing this lunch date with the Revver’s team owner because she didn’t have enough time to rip Marla a new asshole about it and get it canceled.
She would, though.
“Here we are,” the girl who had greeted her at the entrance said. “Mr. Todrey and … guest. Miss Gigi Rey. I will be right back with a menu for you.”
Gigi gave a little laugh, not even bothering to greet the men who had stood from the table yet. “Don’t bother. I don’t eat in front of others.”
It was a lie. Not the first time she told it, either.
It also wasn’t uncommon in her business for models to use that exact excuse to get out of eating a meal they knew would fuck up their diet or otherwise. So, if any of these people had any familiarity with her line of work, it wouldn’t be an unusual statement. She just didn’t care to eat with these men when she hadn’t agreed to lunch in the first place.
“Sure,” the woman replied. “A drink, then?”
“Yeah, why not? Whatever’s on the top shelf for wine today—bring the bottle. On the tab, of course. I’m not paying for this lunch, right?”
That time, she did look to the men at the table. Only one she recognized, the black-haired man in his early forties standing on the left. The shorter of the two with brown eyes that locked on hers and didn’t let go. He smiled—charming and warm—with a nod.
“Of course, you’re not paying. Top-shelf wine, please.”
“Cabernet, if possible,” Gigi added with a wave of her fingers.
“Right away.”
Just like that, the woman left.
Gigi hadn’t bothered to ask her name, and she didn’t regret the choice, either. Too many people passed through her life daily to be on a first-name basis with them. She was willing to do the same for the other man waiting at the table beside Jensen, if only because he was just here for a business meeting as Kayla had explained, but the baseball team owner had different plans about their introduction.
“Marco, this is—”
“Gigi Rey,” the taller, younger, blond man said. He had to be mid-thirties. By all standards, handsome. But so was his counterpart, and the wealthy usually did carry an aura about of some unobtainable standard. Whether it was beauty or success or otherwise, those around them tended to sense it. Gigi was no exception and this man radiated it. “I know exactly who she is, Jensen.”
“Yes, well—”
“Do you know what she brings with her? Attention. Media. Publicity. I don’t think she can even walk down the fucking street without someone recognizing her face today. How fast do you think it would take before paps were chasing her down the block, Jensen?”
“I wanted to show you what I was capable of, and here she is. We should sit down and continue to discuss our possible arrangement, don’t you think?” Jensen asked.
The two men shared a look. The man named Marco, however, was clearly more agitated than Jensen Todrey in that moment. Evident by the clenching of his fists at his sides and the vein starting to pop out in his forehead.
Well …
It looked like Gigi wasn’t the only one displeased about this lunch.
Good.
“There a problem?” Gigi asked. Then, to Marco, she said with a smile, “And anywhere from ten to twenty minutes depending on how close a paparazzo is to my location. A fan tags me in a story, and they’re already on their way, trust that. Less outside of the states, but here it’s … life.”
It was also why, despite feeling like America was home, Gigi preferred living out of the country while her notoriety was high. It was just easier to manage the expectations of her fame that way. Not that she thought these men cared at all about those details.
Marco gave Jensen a very pointed look. “There you are.”
“Listen, it’s a delicate thing, I know. But she’s here.”
“I can see that.”
“What does that tell you?”
The blond man sighed, and he gave Gigi another glance. Despite their well-dressed appearance, both men in their suits with groomed hair swept back in tidy styles, and the fact she knew this had been all set up so it should be safe, something seemed off. The lunch hadn’t even begun yet, but already she could tell something wasn’t right.
“Excuse us,” Jensen said with a chuckle, dragging Gigi from her thoughts in an instant. He stuck out a hand, and out of habit, she did the same. The second his hand found hers, he stepped closer and brought her fingers up to his lips for a quick kiss that she hadn’t wanted at all. “Thank you for agreeing to this lunch.”
I didn’t, she thought.
A small part of her screamed to keep quiet.
“Sit,” Jensen added quickly, “and I’m sure your wine will be here any moment. Don’t mind us … we’re just discussing the benefit of our businesses and how they might work better together.”
“How do I factor into that, exactly?”
Because wasn’t that what this felt like?
Jensen laughed and released her hand. “Don’t worry about that, Gigi Rey. Just keep smiling. It’s worth a lot more than you realize.”
What did that mean?
She took the seat pulled out for her and with the two men facing her, it put their backs to the half partition wall that separated their semi-private section from the main floor. She might have paid attention to whatever Marco was currently saying to Jensen at the table, but it was the flash of blue eyes just beyond the partition that held her attention.
Every bit of it.
It was him.
Those eyes.
She’d know them anywhere.
He’d turned around so all she could see was the back of his head, and the way his buzz cut faded from skin to black hair from the nape of his neck upward. But then, he turned to his left, glancing over his shoulder once more and looked right at her.
The facial hair was new.
It was her first thought.
Not a bad look on him, though.
It had been five and a half years since she laid eyes on him, heard his voice, or spent a night in his bed. Yet, she never forgot it. Or him. Not for one single fucking second. How could she when he had been the last person who really knew her—without even knowing her at all—before she became this? That short time, those nights she spent with him … he didn’t know it, couldn’t possibly, but it meant the world to her.
