Page 22 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

The security guard abruptly turns toward a smaller roped-off area. A short hall, perhaps? She gazes at me from under her lashes as she unclips the velvet rope to let me pass. I smile politely.

“Anything … anything you might need … I’m Tris … Tricia … I, uh, I could give you my number. For while you’re here, at the museum, I mean —”

I let her down gently. “The PAs at the shoot will take care of me, thank you.”

“Oh,” she breathes disappointedly, clipping the rope closed behind her. “Right.”

I stride forward, randomly choosing to keep to the left. I assume the interconnected rooms all eventually lead to the area that Maurice must have spent months, and likely a huge cash donation, securing.

Tris scrambles to catch up, but then hesitates. She doesn’t know whether to dash ahead or hang back, maybe? She decides to walk by my side instead.

The next gallery area is empty, but I hear the murmur of voices ahead.

Then the bustling sounds that always accompany a live model shoot filter through.

One high-pitched voice overrides the other muted conversations for a moment— the designer, Maurice.

Not quite loud enough for me to pick up actual words, though.

My custom-fit, dark-tan designer Oxfords slip a little on the highly polished wood floors of this section, and I have to adjust my stride, slowing slightly.

“Just up ahead,” Tris says unnecessarily.

“Thank you. I think I can track it down from here.”

“Oh … right. Um, if you need anything else … if you want to see the photography exhibit, I’d be happy to —”

“I’ve seen those shots.”

“Right.” She laughs, a little breathlessly. “I guess you had to approve them. ”

I did. Just before I also signed the very specific contract that either the photographer or the gallery is currently voiding.

My face wasn’t to be used to advertise. Anything.

I don’t sponsor. I don’t do paid promotion.

I work with people, with artists. I help them advance their careers, not my own.

“It’s so wild,” she murmurs. “I mean, you could be a supermodel or a famous actor. You could have anyone you want —”

“Not anyone,” I mutter, regretting the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.

She gapes at me, eyes widening in disbelief.

And for some reason, that response totally triggers me. “My face is just a genetic joke,” I snap. “My talent, and what I do with it, is what defines me.”

Tris blinks rapidly.

Shit. This is why I’m not allowed to talk directly to random people, to strangers. I don’t really understand small talk.

“I’m sorry …” she whispers.

I raise my hand, shaking my head. “Please ignore me.”

“I couldn’t ever do that.”

I laugh mirthlessly. “Thank you for the escort.”

I can see her struggling with some request. Probably for a selfie, and she’s likely weighing the idea of snuggling close to me for long enough to snap a picture of the two of us against losing her job.

Not that I’d report her. But I save her from potentially being fired by swiftly stepping through the large panels that have been set across the wide arched opening to the section of the National Gallery that Maurice has managed to get permission to shoot in for the day.

“Okay …” Tris calls after me. “It was great to meet you, Salvatore.”

I keep walking, making a mental note that I’m doomed to forget. I should try to find the preapproved entrance for the shoot when I leave.

Maurice is a fabricator mage, like me. He’s secured a gallery of sixteenth-through-eighteenth-century still-life artists, mostly, including Brueghel the Elder, van Huysum, and Ruysch.

I presume the wide white marble benches have been brought in specifically for the shoot, and the collection itself has been minimized and rearranged.

Maurice has three separate shoots going at once, featuring paired sets of models draped in his upcoming collection.

Racks filled with his newest designs and accessories line the wall to the right, where paintings have obviously been removed for their own protection.

I don’t bother checking in with any of the assistants running around.

I can hear Maurice’s shrill voice emanating from a shoot set up behind some light reflectors at the far end of the gallery.

Arguing with his own creative staff, he’s definitely spread himself too thin.

Plus, I assume there must be a strict time limit on how long he can have the gallery.

I swiftly cross to the nearest set of lights and cameras. The photographer looks familiar enough — the nose ring and severe undercut are striking — that I should know their name. I don’t.

Whispers rise around me — mostly ‘He’s here’ and reiterations of my name — as I step through people mingling around the edges of the shoot. Most of them are greedily eyeing the two models strewn across the marble bench set just out from the wall.

I don’t blame the gawkers. The models are clearly not wearing any support garments under the already provocative clothing.

I’m not particularly titillated by the display, though— because it was my idea.

Maurice asked me to consult, so I did. A nude form compliments the silks and crisp linens that dominate his collection .

But it becomes instantly and painfully obvious — in my mind, at least — that whoever is overseeing the on-set styling isn’t paying close attention to my notes.

It’s easy to pick out the assistant stylist overseeing this particular setup. She’s dark haired and tan skinned, her outfit plucked directly from Maurice’s most recent winter collection. Her head is currently bowed over a tablet. On which she should have a copy of my notes.

The photographer pauses to check their laptop. It’s easier to scroll through the shots in progress on the larger screen.

I stroll past them, still not remembering their name, and call out flippantly over my shoulder, “Don’t bother, they’re all garbage.”

The photographer stiffens, opening their mouth to lose their mind on me.

Then they see me, recognize me. I catch the moment their hands twitch, and they almost raise their camera to snap a picture of me.

I smile, knowing that the expression is snark and edge personified because I’ve designed it that way, like a shield.

Still hovering next to the photographer instead of hands-on styling the models, the negligent assistant stylist meeps and almost drops her tablet. So despite clearly ignoring my notes for this shoot, she obviously recognizes me.

I fix my gaze on the two models currently draped over each other and the marble bench.

Both are shifters of some sort, though definitely not wolves or bears.

An overwrought still life of roses, tulips, a single sunflower on a broken stem, and other flowers in a glass vase occupies the wall behind them.

Early 1700s. The artist is Rachel Ruysch.

I know it’s supposed to feel full of life, what with a bee, a butterfly, a dragonfly, and other insects set throughout the scene, but it feels deadened to me.

More specifically, the image feels like it’s only moments before dying.

Flowers cut and captured in oil on canvas the instant before they drop their petals, to decay.

Plus, there’s a weird green insect with a segmented body, antenna, doubled wings, and a long vicious-looking stinger that I refuse to believe is a grasshopper.

According to the time-sucking internet search I did, at least.

Yes, I obsessed about the art for too long when I first took on the project and Maurice sent me all the particulars.

So I ignore it now. I wouldn’t have picked this setting or this backdrop for these designs, but I can’t force my clients to take my advice, not even with my outrageous fees.

Well, my fees are outrageous when I actually charge for my services.

The female model is all smooth dark skin and long limbs.

Her sweetly rounded face is overly made up — making her appear almost doll-like — and it’s competing with the sexy-as-fuck drape of the yellow silk wrap dress.

The male model is blond with lightly tanned skin, slim but chiseled, and wearing only silk-linen pants.

The tailoring of which, among other things, is seriously lacking.

The female’s hand flexes on the male’s bicep as her eyes round, taking me in. He snaps his head to the right, following her gaze. To me.

“Do you mind if I step in?” I query politely.

“No … please.” She licks her lips, rounded eyes flicking to her companion.

He grins. “The more the merrier.”

His grin is probably sexy, and inviting. But all I notice is that he’s been styled with the wrong jewelry, and —

My ankles are oddly warm.

I spin around.

Fucking heaters are set up a meter away. Pointed toward the models. And the fucking priceless painting .

I frown over at the couple of museum guards lingering on either side of the second entrance to the gallery. Both are currently creeping on a couple of models changing in the wardrobe areas.

“What the fuck are these?” I ask, rhetorically and to no one in particular.

“Oh!” The assistant stylist smiles brightly, as if she’s epically pleased, even proud, to supply an answer. “The models were cold, so —”

“That’s the point,” I snap.

A more observant and clearly motivated production assistant scrambles forward. Her multitude of intricately beaded braids are twisted artfully around her head. More beaded bracelets decorate her bare wrists and travel up her forearms. She shuts off the heaters.

“Oh, really …” The inept stylist swallows, looking down at her tablet. “Maurice approved the setup, so … I …”

“Ice,” I snap at the helpful assistant. “Or spelled cold packs.” She takes off toward the far door, where a green room is presumably set up in the next room over, near the restrooms.