Closer to You (Book One ✓)

T W E N T Y - O N E

I stare at my face in the mirror, focusing all of my energy on my breathing. You've got this, I remind myself, hoping that if I repeat the words enough times, I'll begin to believe them. My brown, cat like eyes are ringed in bold, black liner, highlighted by my temporarily bleached eyebrows. The freckles are on full display, but the makeup artist put a decent amount of product under my cheek bones to hollow out my cheeks and give my face a sharper look. My blonde locks are pulled back so tightly I swear my eyes slant even more than they normally do, and I already feel the tingly sensation of my scalp going numb.

"Ready?" Alessandra, the model I chatted with during our shoot with Royale, leans back in her stool, the ring lights illuminating her wide set eyes.

I look to her, a soft smile on my lips. "No. You?"

She shakes her head, her wild curls barely moving, locked in place with insane amounts of product. "This is a far cry from waitressing," she grumbles as one of the assistants pulls her away for her first wardrobe change.

"Tell me about it," I sigh, the assistant in charge of my wardrobe greeting me finally. The fashion show approached much quicker than I thought it would and now that it's here, I can't stop imagining all the ways I can mess up walking the runway.

"This way," A petite girl rushes me to a rack of clothing all with my measurements, labeled "E.C." I notice the bright colors and bold patterns that are a staple in Royale's collection. Aware of the many people rushing around me, lanky models in various stages of undress and even more assistants with head pieces and clipboards in their hands, I slip out of my robe quickly, changing into my first design.

The assistant makes small adjustments to the wide legged pants and high collared sweater once I'm dressed and I scan the area for my shoe choices, the idea of strutting down a runway in heels having kept me awake for more nights than I'd like to admit. My stomach sinks when she hands me a strappy pair of stilettos, the highest I've ever worn. I look at her anxiously, but she only shrugs. "Royale likes his models tall,"

"I am tall." I feel bad for protesting, the shoes aren't this girls fault, but I can't help it.

Handing me the shoes, the girl mutters to herself. "Really tall," and I cave, painfully wedging my feet in the too tight straps. God, what I'd give for my worn out converse right now. "This way," The assistant shoves me into a line just behind the curtain to the stage, behind Alessandra. "You'll walk on my cue." Her eyes are nervous, too, and the thought is slightly comforting.

I hear the announcer introducing Royale, but I can't pay any attention to his welcome, too preoccupied with the frenzied beating of my own heart. Beau's out there and so is Gemma, I remind myself that at least two people are rooting for me and take another deep breath.

Music blasts from out on stage and flashing strobe lights illuminate the dark even through the curtain. My hands shake as the first model makes her way through the curtain to a roar of applause from the audience. The line moves quickly until only Alessandra is left in front of me, the rest of the girls back in the dressing room, tearing clothing off as assistants redress them in new outfits.

Alessandra steps out and I get a glimpse of the crowd, of the flashing lights from what seems like a million cameras. All I can hear is my own breathing as I feel my assistant nudging me forward for my turn.

Stepping through the curtain, I'm met with the same cheers from the crowd. My senses practically useless, the flashes and strobes too blinding to see and the music and applause too loud to hear, I rely on instinct, pushing one foot in front of the other, keeping my pace consistent and smooth.

Each step is deliberate as I make use of my long legs, swaying my hips just slightly to propel myself down the runway strip. I tilt my chin up and keep my shoulders back, lengthening my body even more, until I reach the end of the catwalk. Bringing my hands to my hips, I extend a leg, somehow remembering to adjust my facial expression in time. Camera flashes blind me as I look into the crowd, unable to make out a single face through the glare. Uncomfortably warm under all the of lights, I hold for what feels like a couple of seconds and strike another pose before pivoting on the heel of my stiletto and making my way back down the runway. Another model already struts down in the opposite direction beside me.