The One He's Been Looking For

Jordan’s forehead wrinkled as she stared at the photograph on Jo’s phone. It took a split second for her to recognize Ian in the Armani ad. His hair was longer and his face thinner, but there was no doubt it was Ian. No wonder he looked so familiar to her! She had this exact ad hanging up in her room...framed. How had she missed that?

“Ho-ly crap.” she muttered. “He’s the frickin’ Armani guy.”

“Told you,” Jo said smugly.

“What am I missing?” Amaya asked.

“Jordan had this ad hanging above her bed when we were in high school—she used to kiss the guy’s picture every night. Swore she was going to marry him,” Jo said, before she blew on her coffee.

“Do you think that might have been an overshare of my personal information?” Jordan asked her sister.

Jo ignored her and continued, “As it turns out...” She turned the phone toward Amaya. “This guy and the guy from last night are one and the same.”

“Freaky.” Amaya studied the picture. “He’s seriously hot.”

“Yes,” Jordan agreed, as her high school fantasies flooded her brain. “He is.

“Does he really look that good in person or was he edited to look like that?” Amaya asked before she took another bite of her sushi.

Jordan shook her head. Ian Sterling didn’t need to be edited. He was damn near perfect. “No. He really does look like this.”

She groaned as she dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. How could she have missed this when she’d found him on Google? How could she have missed it when she’d sat across from him on the trolley? And now she was supposed to go to his studio—the Armani guy’s studio—looking as if she had been on a week-long bender? Unimaginable.

“Start from the beginning—tell us everything,” Jo said, her blue eyes sparkling.

Jordan lifted her head and took a deep breath in through her nose and then blew it out. She told them everything—from Ian saving her from a ticket to him tracking her down at the condo and offering her a job.

She finished her story with, “I’m supposed to go to his studio today for a test shoot.”

Jo smiled at her as she reached out and shook her arm. “It’s serendipitous! You always make fun of me when I tell you stuff like this happens. But come on.... What are the chances?”

“Slim to none,” Jordan admitted as she stared at the Armani ad.

Amaya asked bluntly, “And you’re sure he’s not a wacko who’s gonna chop you up and stuff you in his freezer, right?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not a psycho.” Jordan said.

“Then this is great news. You’re saved! Rent’s due in a week and I can’t cover the spread for both of us again this month.”

“Why did she have to pay your rent last month?” Jo asked, concerned.

“It’s not a big deal.” Jordan brushed off the question before she responded to Amaya. “I don’t think I can do it. I feel like death warmed over and...”

Amaya gave her an incredulous look. “Let me get this straight. You’ve got a hot photographer wanting to pay you to take your picture, and you don’t know? Are you nuts? You’ve gotta pull it together, Jordy, and go make bank. If you don’t, you’re gonna have to take up panhandling, or even worse, go crawling back to your family. You don’t want that, do you?”

“God, no!” Jordan knew her roommate was right. She was almost broke and the last thing she wanted to do was run back to her parents for money, not with her mom’s one-woman campaign to get her to move back to Montana.

Jo continued to stare her down as Amaya took her plate to the kitchen. “What?” Jordan asked defensively.

“Why didn’t you make rent, Jordy? What happened to the money you get from Grandpa’s trust?”

“That stopped once I dropped out of graduate school. I won’t get the balance until I’m thirty.” She shook her head.

“And you couldn’t ask Mom and Dad? I know they’d help out.”

Jordan sighed in frustration. “Of course they would. But there’s always strings attached with Mom, and you know it. And for some reason, ever since...Daniel, she’s fixated on the idea of me moving back to Montana. She already has Tyler at the ranch with her—why is she hell-bent on having me there, too?”

“You’re the baby.”

“By ten minutes!” Jordan exclaimed. Her mother had had five children. Luke, the eldest son, had had an identical twin named Daniel, who had died in the Iraq war. Tyler, the middle child, was being groomed to take over Bent Tree, the family ranch, once their father retired. And then there was Josephine, and finally herself—the baby of the family.

“You know she only wants what’s best for you,” Jo said as she finished her coffee.

“I know.” Jordy agreed easily. “But she’s driving me crazy—and this time she’s just flat-out wrong.”

“Well, sis, if you’re gonna keep a roof over your head or have the occasional meal, it looks like your best bet is to take Mr. Armani Ad up on his offer.”

Jordan stared at her twin for several seconds and let her words sink in. She couldn’t deny that her levelheaded sister had a point.

“Crap.” Jordan finally dropped her head into her hands yet again. She had no doubt this was going to shape up to be a horrifying day.

* * *

Jordan arrived at the Samuel Fox Lofts at 12:30 p.m. She made certain that she parked legally before heading up to the third floor. She pulled Ian’s business card from the back pocket of her skintight black jeans and looked for the apartment number. At the end of the hall, she found the loft door adorned with a small plaque that read Sterling & Axel Photography.

Jordan opened the door and stepped into a small reception area decorated with high-fashion photographs featuring models and actresses alike. There wasn’t a receptionist sitting at the desk, so she walked over to the next door and opened it slowly. She poked her head in and was greeted by a long, narrow room with high ceilings. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with closed plantation shutters, the concrete floors were stained and polished, and exposed-brick structural columns separated the open space into two halves. Just to the left of the door was a large sitting area with a modern, black leather, U-shaped couch. Two leggy females, models, presumably, were sprawled out on it. Both couch loungers inspected her with unsmiling, sullen faces.

“Are you Jordan?”

She was startled by the sound of another female’s voice. Jordan swiveled her head and looked down at a petite, curvy Latina who had just walked up behind her carrying a cup of coffee.

Jordan had to step into the loft in order to make room for the woman. “Yes.”

“I’m Violet Rios, Ian’s makeup artist.” She brushed past Jordan and then stopped. “Dios mío, you’re late! I didn’t think you were gonna show, and Ian’s pissed. Close the door and come with me. I doubt that he’s gonna want to shoot you today. If a model’s late, he never uses them.”

Jordan followed her into the loft, thinking she wouldn’t mind a bit if he changed his mind about photographing her. Her head was pounding and she had an acrid taste in her mouth that no amount of gargling had been able to combat. The sound of the rapid-fire clicking of Violet’s heels on the concrete floor bounced off the high ceilings and only intensified her headache. Those multiple glasses of pink champagne were hanging on for dear life. What a mistake!

Violet led her to a small room near the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

The woman took a quick sip of her coffee before she put the cup down on her makeup table, dropped her large red hobo bag on the floor and disappeared.

Jordan sighed heavily as she slouched into the director’s chair, which faced a brightly illuminated oval mirror, and stared at her reflection. Her coloring was sallow, her eyes were bloodshot and there was no mistaking that she was hungover. She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. She could only pray that Ian was so fed up with her that he booted her out of his studio. Of course, that would leave her without her share of the rent for the month. It was a lose-lose situation.

She didn’t lift her head up when she heard the annoying clack of Violet’s heels and the deep, silky baritone of Ian’s voice just outside the door. Like a child, she was hoping that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

“You’re late.” She could feel the heat of the photographer’s body on her arm. She breathed in and caught the spicy scent that could only be coming from his warm, tan skin.

Slowly she lifted her head and squinted at him through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Instead of apologizing, which she knew she should do, because that was what she was raised to do, she defaulted to sarcasm. He made her nervous, and when she was nervous, the sarcasm flowed unchecked.