Fake Model by Cassie Mint

Three

Coral

Archer Westbrook is touching my face. Cradling me like I’m precious.

Um. What?

I knock his hand away without thinking. He may be Billie’s boss in this scenario, but he’s a jerk. I don’t want his hands on me.

Even if he really does look like a Norse god with his broad shoulders, leather jacket, and long blond hair scraped back with a hair tie.

Crap. My knees knock together under my gown. They don’t make men like this in the baking videos I watch. He scowls, ducking his head and forcing me to meet his eye.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he murmurs, so only we can hear. His gray eyes hold mine, and I struggle to breathe.

I shrug one shoulder.

“Do you ever speak?”

It’s my turn to scowl.

Yes,I want to say, I speak to nice people. People who don’t make my throat close up with nerves.

He’s already torn me apart for being a few pounds heavier than my sister. I’m not about to show him my stutter, too.

I clear my throat. Rehearse the words in my head to make sure, then whisper, slow and clear.

“Let’s get back to work.”

He growls with frustration, the sound gruff behind me, but I keep walking back to the garment rack.

I’m not an idiot. I can tell I’m a terrible model, but I promised Billie I’d try my best, so that’s what I’ll do.

The next dress is simpler, a work of draping white silks, with the tiniest braided straps over my shoulders. I wait while the seamstresses adjust for my curves, a hollow feeling in my gut.

I’ve never felt bad about my body before. I’ve always kind of liked the dip and swell of my form.

That’s modeling, I guess. Especially with men like Archer around. No wonder Billie’s so reluctant to eat my cupcakes.

Well, you know what? I prefer being a maid.

This time, when we walk down to the waves, I let my anger shine through my eyes. I raise my chin in challenge, my limbs still awkward, but not quite as wooden as last time. Archer hums behind his camera, snapping shot after shot.

“That’s it. Better. Show me your spirit, Billie Blue.”

When he lowers the camera, his eyes are dark and intense. They rake over me, taking in every inch of my body.

I can’t help it. I cross my arms over my chest. Archer gusts out a sigh, shaking his head.

Whatever. If he doesn’t want his models to be shy, he shouldn’t be mean. I stick out my tongue and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. His mouth twitches and he strolls over to me, his boots thudding over the damp sand, one hand tucked in his pocket.

He stops right in front of me. Close enough to touch. I could reach up and press my fingertip into the cleft of his chin. I could snatch his camera out of his grip and smash it on the sand.

“What on earth are you thinking about?” he murmurs. His voice is deep and smooth; it sends shivers skating over my skin. My nipples pebble under the thin, white satin against my crossed arms. His eyes flick down, and his mouth curls in a slow, knowing smile.

“Ah.” He chuckles. “I see.”

For the millionth time today, heat spreads over my cheeks. My eyes burn, and I blink back tears.

Why?

Why do I have to cry so easily?

And why is this man so hell bent on humiliating me?

I clear my throat, forcing the words out even as my face flushes even brighter.

“You are a cr-cruel man, Archer W-Westbrook.”

His smirk falls, but it’s too late. I turn around and stride back across the beach, not waiting to be dismissed, heading for the next garment bag with my head held high. The nice assistant Gavin gives me a questioning look, but I shake my head, keeping my arms crossed over my traitorous breasts.

Archer Westbrook already knows the effect he has on me.

I don’t want every last person on this beach to know my humiliation.

* * *

We speed through the next few dresses, with Archer hardly bothering to direct me. He’s distracted, snapping pictures while barely looking through his camera lens. He seems more concerned with frowning at me, staring intently like I’m a riddle to be solved.

I roll my eyes, lifting the hem of a lacy knee-length bridal dress and stepping deeper into the waves. The cold water shocks my skin, zaps me with new energy, and I don’t have to fake my exhilarated smile.

“Good,” Archer murmurs, raising the camera to his eye. He snaps a series of photos, sea foam rushing around his boots. “Very good, sweetheart.”

He has no right to call me that, but the name sends a secret thrill down my spine. Something pulses, hot and achy, between my legs.

I bite my lip, turning to give him my back, and gaze at him over my shoulder.

“Fuck,” Archer mutters to himself.

I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, him cursing. He seems more worked up than angry, the corded muscles tight in his neck and his jaw grinding together. He grunts and adjusts his pants.

Oh. Oh. I flush red hot again, but this time I don’t mind.

He wants me. The man who thinks I’m too big, who knows I can’t model for shit—he wants my body. For a giddy moment, there’s nothing but the hush of the sea and the gentle breeze. No people, no cry of seabirds, no reality.

I smirk straight into the camera lens. I don’t know where this daring Coral came from, but I hope she never leaves.

“Jesus,” he mutters, snapping several more photos. “I won’t be able to sell any of these.”

I slump.

Just like that, my newfound courage deserts me. Once again, I’m just the wrong twin sister, standing in someone else’s dress, her feet numb in the sea.

“I don’t mean it that way,” Archer says quickly, as if he can read the defeat in my face. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. Confessional. “I mean I don’t want to share.” His grip tightens on his camera where he holds it by his chest, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t want anyone to see you like this. Only me.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I process his words. It sounds like…

No, he is saying that. And not just with his words, but with his hungry eyes. Archer Westbrook is staring at me like a starving man at a feast.

I’ve never done anything like this. Never felt anything like this—an immediate connection to someone, sparks racing under my skin.

I lick my lips. “C-call me sweetheart again.”

“Sweetheart,” he purrs. I squeeze my thighs together, my breath catching in my throat. He watches every tiny movement of my body, reading my arousal in every twitch and gasp.

I’ve never been watched this closely before. Never been seen so fully.

It makes me want to show him more.

I glance over his shoulder, at the group of people clustered at the top of the beach. They’re huddled around the coffee table, chatting. Their backs turned and their attention elsewhere.

I meet Archer’s gaze and hook a thumb under my dress strap. He raises his camera again as I tug it down, showing my bare breast, and snaps a photo.

“Don’t sh-show anyone,” I warn him, cupping myself. I pinch the nipple, tipping my head back with a gasp.

Archer chokes out a laugh.

“As if I could. I’d have to murder them on the spot just for looking at you.”

My pussy throbs harder, slick and wanting between my thighs.

“Y-you don’t mind my curves now.”

He huffs out a breath. “Mind them? Sweetheart. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

There’s no way that’s true—the man works with freaking supermodels every day—but it’s nice of him to say. Nicer than he’s been all day. It warms me up to him just a tiny bit, and hunger claws at my belly when he reaches down again and palms the front of his jeans.

It should be crude. Off-putting.

But it makes my mouth water.

Already, through his dark jeans, I can see the outline of his cock. It’s huge. A statement. A battering ram.

I squeeze my breast harder, biting my lip against a moan. Archer curses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“If we were alone,” he tells me hurriedly, “I’d prove it to you. I’d lick your sweet pussy until you cried. For the right reasons this time.”

Gavin’s voice echoes down the beach, calling for us, and I yank my dress strap back up my shoulder, alarmed.

Archer looks rueful. Moody and impatient again, but not at me.

This time, he guides me back up the beach with his warm palm hovering over my back.

Half an inch of air. That’s all there is between us. It makes me want to slam to a halt so his palm brushes my skin. I can almost feel his heat as it is, that tiny point of imagined contact sending warmth licking through my veins.

I come to a stop in front of the last garment bags. The lingerie.

Archer growls behind me.

Oh, god. Here we go.