Page 4 of Hot Shot

Except for Hayden. Best friends since middle school, we bonded as misfits, rejected by the other girls for not conforming to their standards of dress, makeup, and boy craziness. We were never good at sports, preferring to hang out in the library or local bookstore, or the animal shelter where we volunteered. Despite our differences—Hayden is extremely logical and sensible, whereas I’m emotional and impulsive; Hayden is quiet and introverted, while I’m extroverted and talkative—we understand each other. Hayden keeps me focused, and I keep Hayden from becoming a hermit.

And Grandma Garner. Grandma is the other oddball in the family, the one who understands me better than anyone else. As Grandma says, we’re “kindred spirits.”

I turn into the parking lot behind my condo complex, park, and enter my little place. It’s big enough for me. I like the wall of windows leading onto a balcony that overlooks the center courtyard full of palm trees and flowers, and the location is great. But it’s not the kind of place I see myself living in forever. I’ve been keeping an eye out for a property I could move up to, now my money situation is pretty comfortable. Of course, since I impulsively applied for that scholarship to study photography in Spain and shockingly got accepted, I’ll have to put that on hold.

I’d like a house, something with character that I can make my own. Not that I haven’t made this condo my own, but there are limits to what I can do with it.

I drop my big purse on the granite counter separating my tiny kitchen from the living/dining area and head to my bedroom. I didn’t even shower after rolling out of bed to answer Marco’s summons to Conquistadors.

I like “kindred spirits,” the people you relate to without any effort. Too bad Marco isn’t a little more kindred.

Except . . . there’s something about him that I do feel a sense of connection with. His typical look is a broody scowl, though he smiles and flirts with customers. But the smiles never really dispel the faint shadows in those dark eyes, hints of pain and sadness that tug at something inside me. I know what it’s like to be hurt, but I have a feeling Marco’s wounds are much darker and deeper than the ones I’ve experienced.

And that is all in my past. I’ve moved on from all that. Now I’m a successful model many people admire. If I felt a teensy bit dissatisfied with that, well, I’ve been at this a while and it’s bound to get old. Unfortunately,I’malso getting old, and the jobs I’m being offered are getting fewer and further between. Less glamorous. There are hundreds of young girls people would rather hire.

I can’t complain about this stuff to anyone, because people look at me and think I can’t possibly have problems. Bitching about my modeling career? Oh, too bad, so sad. And Iamgrateful for the success I’ve had, truly. But sometimes I feel like my life doesn’t mean anything. Like I’ll never do anything that makes a real difference in the world.

My best friend is trying to find a cure for cancer. My entire family is successful in the business world. And I… I get my picture taken for advertisements.

I quickly shower and wash my hair. I had my regular waxing appointment the other day so I’m good to go. I leave my hair damp, knowing it’ll air dry on the way to the pier.

I drove up the coast, grateful for no traffic snarls on a summer Saturday, and find the trailer where hair and makeup are waiting for me. I’ve worked with Olympia and Chantal before and we chat easily as Olympia turns my hair into a perfectly tousled style and Chantal does my face. I also know the photographer, Chance. We dated a few times years ago, but it had never gone anywhere and now we’re friends. He’s been helpful to me with my own photography, giving me advice when I bought a new camera and suggestions on how to improve my shots.

Another model arrives as Chantal finishes glossing my lips.

“Hey, Carrie.” Ralph greets me with a wide smile. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Eh, not really. Ralph is stunningly gorgeous, with cut muscles and abs you could scrub clothes on, tanned and white toothed with a killer smile. But he’s incredibly shallow. He has to spend most of his time in the gym, and all he likes to talk about is protein shakes, tanning beds, and whether his calves are too skinny.

The first outfit I don is a cute little romper in a bright tropical print. The front has a plunging cowl neckline and Chantal adds shimmer to my chest and cleavage.

I’m so used to this, but damn, it gets harder and harder to stand there and let people fuss over my hair and makeup and the outfit I’m wearing, pinning it at the back so it fits my narrow torso better, tweaking the neckline. I have to look over everyone’s heads and force myself to breathe normally because I feel all twitchy.

Then Ralph and I are out on the pier with people swarming around us—the stylist, the photographer, his assistant, the marketing rep from the store, and a bunch of other people. I smile and shake my hair back in the ocean breeze and move from pose to pose with Ralph against the wooden railing of the pier. Tourists and people out for the day pause to watch the shoot.

I change into a bikini and a floaty skirt that sits low on my hips. Ralph and I return to the beach, this time on the sand beneath the pier, the crisscross supports of the structure behind us. The breeze tosses the skirt around my legs, and once again I move from pose to pose, smiling into Ralph’s eyes, adjusting the tilt of my head, the width of my smile, the turn of my foot in the sand.

“Yeah, turn your head the other way,” Chance calls to me. “You look like you have a double chin.”

I resist an eye roll. I do not have a double chin. Fuck him.

2

MARCO

I watch Carrie stride out of Conquistadors with a sigh.

The shit that comes out of my mouth when she’s around is never what it’s supposed to be.

I have no idea why she hates my guts, but she clearly does. From the first time I met her at one of our tequila-tasting evenings when she came in with her friend Hayden, I’ve been dumbstruck by how gorgeous she is. There’s something about her that . . . shines. The luminous smile, her laugh, the way she seems to enjoy life so much. So I flirted a little. Isn’t that how you show a woman you’re interested in her?

Exceptshe’snot interested inme.

Okay, so I’m aiming too high with her. A blond, blue-eyed model with several sexy swimsuit shoots in her portfolio is probably, nodefinitelyout of my league. Of course she dislikes me. I’m the guy nobody wants.

Okay, okay, that’s melodramatic and pathetic.

I slide off the stool at the bar and move around behind it to place stemmed glasses into the overhead rack. It’s early in the day but I can still be productive.

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