And for what? I don’t even know if he’s going to hire me. Or if he’s going to apologize for smacking down that drunk and embarrassing me, much less ordering me outside like I’m a recalcitrant teenager.
I pick up my pace, my speed increasing along with my irritation. As I approach, he stands up straight. His mouth moves, as if he’s going to speak, but I don’t let him. Instead, I poke him in the chest with my index finger. “You owe me a grand,” I say. “Probably more, but I’ll settle for a thousand. In cash. Tonight.”
I expect him to laugh. Or at least to ask me what the hell I’m talking about. Instead, he reaches up and folds his hand around mine. His palm is warm, and though this isn’t an intimate touch, my stupid, traitorous hormones are reacting as if it were. As if we were the old Kelsey and Wyatt, holding hands on the far side of the golf course where no one could see us, least of all my father.
Roughly, I wrench my hand from his. “A grand,” I repeat.
“Get in the car,” he says.
I tilt my head, then cross my arms over my chest. His eyes follow my movements, and as I watch, the corner of his mouth lifts, and that tiny movement softens his expression. I feel my skin heat, because I wasn’t expecting him to so overtly check out my breasts.
Then my blush deepens, as I realize he’s not checking me out at all. Instead, he’s reading my T-shirt.
“Dance like nobody’s watching,” he reads, then looks at my face with the kind of intensity I remember only too well. The kind that sends shivers through me. “Is that what you were doing in there?” he asks. “Dancing for yourself?”
I force my feet to stay planted on the asphalt. I want to run from the heat I see in his eyes. Because it’s dangerous, I know it is. And yet I need him, and if I run, I’ll only be hurting my brother.
I draw a breath, fix my eyes on an illuminated gas station sign shining somewhere behind him, and say very softly, “No.”
“Look at me, Kelsey.”
I do, my jaw set as I force myself to maintain eye contact.
“Tell me,” he says.
“You know the answer.” I’m proud that I’ve managed to disguise the tremor in my voice. “This was an audition, wasn’t it? Who do you think I was dancing for?”
His throat moves as he swallows. “Get in the car.”
“Pay me.”
“I haven’t hired you yet.”
“A grand,” I say, circling back to my original demand. “We both know I would have won. And we both know that you messed that up for me.”
I cross my arms again, and this time I’m determined not to be waylaid by whatever he says next. He surprises me, though, by not saying anything at all. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and peels off ten hundred dollar bills.
“Right,” I say, because I’d actually forgotten how casual money must be in his family. “Chump change to you.”
I expect a sarcastic reply, but he simply extends the bills. I reach for them, and as I pull the cash away, his hand closes over mine, the money held tight between our two palms. “I pay my debts, Kelsey,” he says. “Always.”
I’m unnerved, but I’m not sure if it’s because of his touch, his words, or the tone of his voice. Whatever it is, I tug my hand free, and this time he lets the bills come with me. I quickly shove them into my purse, the clatter of an adding machine filling my head.
Only fourteen thousand more to go.
The thought hits me like a surgical strike, pulling me back to reality. And the reality is that I need a lot of money. A lot of money.
That thousand he shafted me out of isn’t the prize I care about, and I shove the bills back at him. “Actually, forget the grand. I want the job.” I nod toward the club. “I think I proved myself.”
“Is that what you think?”
I stiffen, unnerved by the sharpness of his voice, a steely blade cutting right through any past—any connection—we may still have. “You saw me dance,” I say defensively. “You know I can strike a pose. You know I can look alluring.” I swallow, my cheeks burning. “And you know I can strip down and not turn away from the camera—or from the eyes behind it.”
His expression hardens. “And if I was looking for a woman willing to flaunt her tits so some poor slob can fantasize that she’ll take him home and fuck him like a porn star, then you’d totally land the job.”
Without even thinking about it, I reach out and slap his face.
Then that same hand flies to my mouth to cover my own gasp of surprise. I cringe and step back, certain there will be retribution. That he’s going to grab my shoulders. That he’s going to slam me against the side of the car and demand I apologize.
He does none of that.
Instead, the stiffness leaves his body, and he draws in air as he drags the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Oh, hell, Kelsey. I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”
I’m so surprised by the admission that I take a step toward him, and the irony is that I want to make him feel better.
“It’s okay, really. And I don’t think your work is sleazy or anything like that. That’s not why I wanted you to see me dance here.” I don’t have to work to make my words convincing. Whatever else is going on between us, I would never lie about the impact of those spectacular, provocative photos. “Your work—Wyatt, those pictures are incredible. They’re honest and real, and the women you’ve photographed are . . .”
I trail off with a shrug, because how can I say that I want to be like them. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. But you made me so angry. All I really wanted was for you to see that I can handle the job.”
“And you thought this would convince me?”
“Well, um, yeah.”
“Hmm.” He starts to circle me, and I instinctively step away, protecting my blindside by putting his gigantic SUV behind me.
“You can dance, but I’m not hiring a dancer.” His words are low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. But his eyes are on me with every word. “Still, you have the look I want. The persona, too. And you damn sure have the attitude.”
“Like I said, I can do this.”
“You definitely proved that you can push past your comfort zone. I’ll even go so far as to say that not only are you absolutely fucking perfect for my show, but that no other model has come close.”
There’s a sharpness to his words. An anger. One that I’m certain has roots going back twelve years.
“But here’s the thing.” He stops circling me and instead comes straight toward me. I inch backward until my rear bumps the cool metal of the door. “So what if all those things are true? So what if you’re perfect? Because even with all that going for you, how can I trust that you’ll see it through? I only have a few weeks to wrap this up, and I can’t be wrong. So you tell me, Kelsey. How can I trust you? How can I be certain that you won’t bolt midway into the shoot? That you won’t leave me hanging?”
That you won’t break my heart?