Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,32

the distance.

Nothing could break my happiness today, not even Rhys Marchand’s withering comments.

“While I’m standing here. Is that okay?”

He looks from my phone to me. “That depends. My fee is pretty steep.”

“Shoot. Do you accept favors? I bet you’ll need my help with something during this trip.”

He snorts. “I already have—and you helped me with that yesterday.”

For a mind-numbing second, I think he’s referring to the kiss. But no, it’s Baptiste, the dinner, and my role as buffer.

“Right. Well then, take pictures of me here, and then we’re even.”

“Is this for your social media accounts?” he asks.

My fingers clutch around the balcony railing. “It might be.”

He grumbles behind me.

“I know you hate that,” I add.

“Yes. But it’s the game I hate, not the player.” He holds up my phone. “Let me attempt a bit of pointing and shooting, then.”

I pose against the balcony railing, my robe wrapped tightly around me. Rhys backs up a little, changes his angles as I transition between poses. We’ve only been shooting together for a few days, and most of those had been fraught with tension.

Now it’s starting to feel… natural. I know what angles he’ll ask me for before he does. He knows what poses I look best in before I shift into them.

I’ve never shot with the same photographer for this long.

“This is a good idea,” he says, brow furrowed, the way it always is when he photographs. Concentration makes his features sharpen in intensity. “You’re selling the hotel this way, too.”

“Rieler might want one of these shots too.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

I nod towards the double doors. “What do you call French doors in France?”

He snorts. “Just doors, I suppose.”

“It’s a riddle.” I turn around, tossing my hair down my back, and lean out over the railing. The Eiffel Tower is gorgeous in the distance. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this view,” I tell him.

“To the left.”

“Look?”

“Yes.”

I do as he says, and when I glimpse back, he’s shooting with his big camera. “For Rieler?”

“Yes. You… well, you had a good idea.”

My lips curve. “Bound to happen every now and then.”

“I suppose,” he says, but there’s a smirk there, too.

“So what do you have against social media?” I ask him, turning around to look at him. He keeps shooting, so I keep posing, even as I wait for his reply. Closing my eyes and tilting my head back. Gripping the waistband of my robe.

Rhys finally lowers the camera. “I recognize that it can be great,” he says, words measured. Like he’s being careful. “For keeping in touch with people, for getting news. But more and more, people seem to be turning to social media for human connection rather than to, you know, actual humans. Not to mention that the beauty standards on social media are sending kids’ self-esteem to record lows.”

His words are a bucket of ice water.

I tug my robe off, revealing the dress I’d worn beneath, and head back into the hotel room. He follows silently. He doesn’t speak when I pull on my shoes either, and he helps me roll one of my giant suitcases down the corridor. We don’t speak until we’ve checked our bags in with the concierge for the day, not until we’re out on the bright streets of Paris.

“Hey, I know that was harsh,” he says.

I don’t reply for a moment, because I don’t feel like I can.

“Ivy…”

“You prefer brutal honesty.” I look up at the sky, because I can’t look at him. The sharp sting of his early judgement is back, but it’s so much more cutting this time, because it’s reaching a wound that’s already hurting. “You touched on one of my biggest fears,” I admit.

Rhys doesn’t reply, but there’s permission in the silence. My words find their way out. “I know this industry is shallow, and models are just… just models. Paid to look pretty. I mean, part of that is what you said just two weeks ago.”

“I could have phrased it better.”

“You know, when the average woman sees a picture of me that’s in an ad or a magazine, it’s gone through so many rounds of editing. And I’m talking before it ever became digital—this is my job.” I pause, pointing to my hair. “Professional highlights. My skin? The agency pays for a dermatologist that I see every month. I’m never in the sun. This tan is fake, courtesy of the agency. I work out pretty much every day, and I’ve worked with both personal trainers and dietitians. My job is to look