Page 6 of The Southern Thirst Trap

“Why didn’t I know you dated Zander Olsen?” Alicia asks immediately.

“He’s so hot. You two are like gorgeousness personified standing next to each other,” Callie gushes. “I think I was just inspired for my spring/summer line from that one interaction alone! I can see it now, menswear-inspired pieces with florals and chiffon,” she muses, clapping her hands and speaking her thoughts out loud.

“Oh, please. Don't waxhoeticabout that jackass,” Paloma says to Callie, before leaning forward and focusing on me. “Are you okay, Lolo?” she asks, placing a cool hand on my shoulder. I cover hers with my own for a moment and check the lanes next to me as traffic finally eases up, and the flow opens enough for me to merge

back onto the highway.

I feel more disrupted and unsure of my life than ever. I started the morning on a high feeling like I had my shit together, promoting my new cookbook on a local news channel. I began feeling like a failure for running late, ruining my son’s day, and possibly jeopardizing his spot at school. It really went downhill with the weird flex of fate of being hit in traffic, both slowing down my already beleaguered schedule, then, the ultimate fuck your self-confidence, chucking Zander into the already chaotic mix.

If he only knew that I see his face every day when I look at my son, that I think of our short time together and my failure to create the sort of security for my son that a father would have provided, he may have been less casual, less unaffected. But that’s not how Zander rolls, and I knew it when I agreed to a spontaneous trip with him. Stupid, naïve girl. There is so much I would change, so much I wish I had known then.

Even so, the best thing to ever happen to me came from it.

“I’m okay. For now,” I answer.

three

Harlowe

Five Years Ago

“WhatdoIpackfor two weeks in the Maldives with a man I barely know but want to climb like a tree and live in his branches like a granola hippie activist?” I ask Paloma as I throw open my closet and haul out my suitcase. It’s seen the world with me as I live the crazy nomadic life of an international supermodel that I’ve been swept up into the last six years since being discovered by a talent scout in Atlanta while out shopping with my mom.

Yeah, that’s a weird littleonly-in-the-movies momentI never thought would be my real life, but here I am, on more magazine covers than I can keep track of, letting my manager book my next deals for brands that wouldn’t have given me a second look just a few years ago, and being invited by a billionaire to accompany him on a two-week trip to the Maldives.

“Lots and lots of bikinis. I don't think you need to bring anything else. You already know he is going to rail the ever-living hell out of you, so lingerie is a waste of space unless you think he’ll get bored and you’ll need to spice it up. Two weeks is a long time for a renowned fuckboy like him,” she muses, pulling open a dresser drawer and grabbing a handful of silk and lace pretty things thoughtfully.

Those pieces probably came home with me from the countless photoshoots, fashion shows, and campaigns I’ve shot for various lingerie brands. I was blessed with a body made for the likes of Agent Provocateur and La Perla, brands I’ve become well acquainted with at this point, and a face that cosmetics companies can’t wait to book. I’m lucky, so damn lucky, but sometimes I feel like the only thing I’m good for is being pretty, or having a body that turns people on. Zander Olsen is just the latest to be fascinated by my bangable body and pretty face.

“You mean ifIget bored. He’ll have his hands full with me, fuckboy or not,” I joke.

I can be whatever flavor of plaything Zander Olsen wants for this trip. I know what this is. He’s a bored billionaire who’s interested in fucking me, and I'm just as interested in fucking him. It's mutually beneficial and I’m perfectly content to take a few weeks off to see if he can back up the reputation he’s built for himself among the modeling community for being a spectacular lay and a pretty interesting guy in the small amount of time he’s given women before and after taking them to bed.

I’ve met him a few times at industry events. He’s hot, he’s made me laugh, and I finally agreed to go to dinner with him after making him work for it. I wasn’t going to be the typical model who went willingly to his bed, or even into his DMs. I would make him come to me. And he did, like a very good boy.

At dinner last night he offered to take me on this trip and ensured I knew there would be no strings, no attachments, just the two weeks. I know that’s already way more than anyone else has been given. So I accepted. And here I am, hastily packing my suitcase and ready to see what Zander Olsen is reallypacking.

“Some of these pieces are so pretty,” I say, picking up a strappy purple number I remember being a bit hard to get into, but was a total knockout. I purse my lips and toss it back in the drawer, knowing I want easy pieces to get into and out of. Easy access, and all that.

Paloma holds up an armful of bikinis in every color and dumps them on my bed. “Lolo, no one could get bored with you. Just look at you.” She waves her arm up and down my body for emphasis. “I’m sure you two will be having too much fun and sex to care about much else.” She sighs before she turns and scowls at me. “I’m not jealous at all. Nope. I don't need a rich as sin, hot as hell, tall drink of water to offer to takemeaway on a tropical vacation for two freaking weeks. I won’t be having vivid fantasies imagining just this very thing the whole time you’re gone. Not jealous one bit,” she says, her voice growing more strained as she speaks.

I laugh as I throw in a wardrobe of designer dresses, shorts, skirts, and tops. “I’ll be sure to bring home a beautiful souvenir for you.”

“Business casual, even for vacation? You’re taking this seriously, I see,” I say with a smile, taking in Zander’s charcoal slacks and crisp white shirt as he extends his hand and helps me out of the car he sent to collect me, pulling me onto the tarmac of the private section of the airport. He flew to LA from his home in Atlanta and we’ll head to the Maldives from here.

He looks incredible, as usual, but he could be headed to a business deal in that outfit. At least he lost the tie and jacket. I’m wearing a bright yellow halter dress from the Chloé resort collection I shot last spring, and the suitcase that is being unloaded by the driver is full of fashionable clothing all suited for the tropical vacation we are headed on. I’m nothing if not the consummate model, always prepared for the job at hand, and this particular job is to be the beautiful, willing companion to this sexy as hell man who is whisking me off across the world. I know my role. I’m ready for it, not a hair out of place, and a wide smile already on my face just for him.

“Only the best for you,” he says with a grin.

He wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me against his firm body. Even in my tall espadrilles, he’s still a few inches taller than me, but I can look him in the eyes, and those gray depths are sparkling with sexy challenge.

“Are you ready for two weeks of escaping from reality?”

“Are you ready to spend two weeks keeping up with me?” I toss back, sliding my hand up his neck until I can cup his jaw and run my thumb over his full bottom lip. I may know my role, but I can still keep him on his toes.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you,” he growls, his lip brushing my thumb with the movement before he sucks it into his mouth, and I smile at the sensation.

He catches my wrist in the iron grip of his own hand so I don’t pull away until he’s finished swirling his tongue around and nipping at the pad. He uses his grip on my wrist to pull my thumb out of his mouth with a pop, brings my hand down behind my back, and keeps it there where he laces our fingers.

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