Page 2 of Hard to Fake

Then starts to click.

The models are giving me curious and affronted looks, as if it’s better to sit around not getting the shots the client needs rather than try something new.

“Aliya, can you do that?” the photographer asks, intrigued.

I hear something that sounds like a snort. “You want me to hop on stones like a cracked out rabbit?”

“What’s your name?” Giovanni asks, staring straight at me.

“Brooke.”

Aliya’s cold look can’t kill my buzz.

I'm triumphant, basking in my moment of satisfaction. This shoot is saved, the client will be happy, and we can all move on with our lives.

A shrill screech goes up from one of the set assistants stationed near the entrance.

It’s a closed set, but a man just entered and is striding over as if he owns it, his height and broad shoulders saying he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

He’s big enough to block out part of the sky and attractive enough no one would mind.

The models get in on the excitement, anticipation sweeping the set like wildfire.

“Is that…?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, he’s so gorgeous in person.”

“And tall. Damn.”

Security watches him but with envious smiles rather than suspicion.

What the hell is he doing here?

My weight shifts too far to the right.

Damn it.

I tighten my abs on the opposite side trying to regain my balance.

My foot swipes for the stone but misses.

My arms windmill.

My toe tips into the icy water.

When I dressed for today in my Prada cashmere sweater and pencil skirt and suede Stuart Weitzman ankle booties, I wasn’t expecting to pull a Michael Phelps.

Swimming is not in my zone of genius. I look my best dry.

But no matter what prayers I send up to the fashion gods, the water rushes up at me like wall.

The pond is knee deep, but that’s hardly a consolation when I land ass first.

It’s shockingly cold, soaking through my tights and bra. I try to swallow my screech but not fast enough.

At the edge of the pond, the models are pointing and gasping.

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