Chapter 4 - Leo

Tuesday night

Men are so funny. And easy. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes a couple of times and they start stuttering over their words. I don’t even have to try. With every man I’ve ever slept with (seven in total), it took about ten minutes to get them to fall in love with me. And with every man, they’re the ones to make the first move. Even when I know a guy wants to fuck my brains out, I never initiate no matter how badly I want him. Luckily, it’s worked out in my favor seven times so far. 

So now as I sit in front of a sheer green backdrop, watching the guy in front of me devour me with his eyes, it’s a whole new ballgame. It’s a Tuesday night and I am back in his studio that I was at only a few days earlier. Professional studio lights now illuminate the previously sunfilled room, it feels like a completely different setting.

I’m surprised he invited me back after the last photoshoot. He showed me the pictures and said I did a great job. I told him that I thought I was a bit awkward to which he gave me the most baffled look. “For your first time modeling these are incredible, trust me. If they were shitty I’d tell you but I wouldn’t have let you leave if I thought I took shitty photos.” He said.

Of all that we took, 30 are printed out and lined on the back wall of his studio, which he says he does when he can’t decide which ones to pick. “Hanging them in front of me and seeing them throughout the day makes it easy to decide. By the end of the day, there will be a few that caught my eye more than others so those are the ones I go with.” I joked with him about being a stalker again, saying that they always have pictures of who they’re stalking plastered on their walls. He quietly laughed at that and while looking up at the images he muttered what sounded like, “God, you’re something else,” under his breath. 

What’s surprising to me is that I enjoyed it. I thought I would let him take my photos, we’d fuck, and then that would be it. But that didn’t happen and I had to unfortunately hit up Ethan for a quick fix.

Today, he’s taking more pictures of me, but these shots will be more edited. The backdrop behind me is a green screen they’ll edit some cool background and effects onto. I’m modeling a skincare brand today, so most shots are close-ups. Many photography studios have giant production teams, makeup artists, and directors for their photoshoots. At least that’s what I thought until Jordan told me that’s not the case most of the time.

I kept asking him questions in between shots until I realized I shouldn’t be talking. The models on America's Next Top Model are quiet the entire photoshoot.  If they even opened their mouths to breathe in the middle of one, Tyra would be at their necks. Which obviously makes sense but I didn’t think about that. Jordan said it was fine though and I should keep talking, assuring me he’s only capturing shots in between my mouth opening. He was only taking photos while he was talking. I didn’t believe him until we were done and he showed me all of the perfectly shot pictures, between my mouth opening. He had a look on his face that I read as, Yeah I’m a fucking pro at this.

So far I’ve learned quite a bit about him. He has a studio downtown but prefers using his own. Most of his photos are taken here by himself which he either edits or sends to his professional editor if it needs a background or bigger touch-ups. For larger fashion brands, he’ll go to their studio because they already have everything set up there. He also doesn’t like when there are too many people in his studio. He’s fluent in Japanese and French and is learning Mandarin.

Squatting 5 feet away from me, Jordan snaps another picture. He’s wearing black pants and a tight black button-down shirt that perfectly sculpts his biceps. His hair is partially slicked back, with a few loose strands falling over his forehead. 

 I think back to what he said the other day. 

I don’t fuck my models. 

I almost laugh at the thought, knowing he was thinking the same thing I was. I never even try to hide it. If I want you, you’ll know. And most of the time, the guy doesn’t try to hide it. Or at least they’re not good at it. 

He snaps one more before standing up. As I wait I look around his penthouse studio. A massive loft with high floor to ceilings windows and stairs that lead into his apartment below is to the left. His equipment, lights, props, backdrop, and clothing racks are in the center. A velvet sectional couch, a TV, two seats, and a desk are on the wall opposite the windows. 

I wonder how many guys he’s had on that couch even though he doesn’t fuck his models, which I don’t fully believe. All of the people on his Instagram are insanely attractive. Thousands of comments under each post thirst for them.  But he expects me to believe that he spends hours with them in this room and doesn’t do anything? Suuure.

I lean forward off of my elbows and rise to my feet. Jordan finally looks up from his camera as I approach him. “Are they bad?” I ask, stopping about three feet in front of him. Standing a few inches shorter than him at 5’11, I’m so close that I have to tilt my head to look up at his 6’4 frame. He shakes his head. “I don’t think I could take a bad picture of you if I tried.” His eyes are back on his camera as he clicks through the photos again. 

He scrunches his eyebrows, lips slightly parted. He’s a million times hotter up close. His sharp square jaw pronounced, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. 

 “I don’t like something, but I can’t put my finger on what.” I move closer. “Can I see?” He angles the LCD screen toward me and we both watch the screen as he goes through the camera roll. “See, the edges look weird.” I can feel him watching me out of the corner of his eyes. 

“Hmm, maybe it’s the angle?” He took pictures standing up so they’re all angled down at me. “What about taking them at eye level?” He shakes his head again. “Nah, remember I took your test shots from different angles, and those turned out fine.” Before we started today, we did test shots to determine the best angle and lighting. It amazes me how he does all this alone with no help. But at the same time, he seems like a perfectionist who wouldn't want anybody's help. 

“Wait.” He says suddenly before flipping his camera upside down and popping open the memory card slot. He slips the card out and examines it. Then sniffs it. I don’t even try to hide my confusion before he suddenly turns and walks toward his desk. I follow him and we both make it to the desk at the same time where realization hits us simultaneously. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” The condensation and melted ice from the coffee cup I set down earlier leaked all over the table. And must have gotten on his camera which was sitting right next to it. Jordan was setting up the lights when he told me to grab his camera off the desk. I didn’t feel any wetness on it and he must have not either. 

Fuck. How much does a camera cost? $1k? $2k? He’s never inviting me back after this. I pick up the cup to set it on the floor and start wiping the table with the tissues from a Kleenex box nearby.

Once I finish, he’s still silent as I turn to him. “I’m sorry, I’m a dumbass. I’ll buy you a new camer-,” I abruptly stop because he starts laughing. 

Is he insane? I just ruined a $1,000 camera. Why isn’t he telling me to fuck off? I can’t help but stare at him incredulously.

 “Leo.” He says still laughing. “You’re fine. It’s just the memory card. The camera still turns on, there’s no internal damage.” 

I give him a questioning look. “Are you sure?” I can’t tell how much water got into it. He squats to open a drawer under his desk, retrieves another memory card, and pops it in. Standing back up, he turns to me and snaps a picture. He steps closer, his arm grazes my shoulder as he shows me the screen. “See. Perfect.” The image on the screen is of me 3 seconds ago looking up at him with my eyebrows scrunched. 

It looks completely different from the photos he showed me earlier, but I would have never known something was wrong because those looked normal to me. He points out the differences in lighting and the distortion the ruined memory card caused. I silently admire his insanely sharp perception of this, but mostly I’m just glad I didn’t fuck up his camera. 

“Okay but why are you laughing, I still ruined all the pictures you took and wasted hours of your time.” 

He leans his body onto the now fully dried desk and sets his camera down next to him. We’re at eye level now. He crosses his arms and tilts his head toward the floor, his biceps taut against his tight button-down. “I was laughing because I couldn't figure out what was wrong. And I thought that maybe I lost my magic touch and had to find a new career.” Meeting my gaze he continues. “As for the photos, we can redo them another day. I’ve had to reshoot countless times.” 

I mirror his gesture by crossing my arms. “But I still fucked up your pictures because I was a dumbass. At least tell me off or something.”  

He uncrosses his arms and rests his palms next to him on the desk. “No. Stop calling yourself a dumbass. It was a trivial mistake even I could have made.”

I pout and uncross my arms too, still unsatisfied. “But you only drink hot coffee.” Hot coffee cups don’t produce condensation. 

He faces his head towards the floor again as if admitting some type of defeat but I can see the corners of his lips rise. 

I don’t even know what I want from him. Do I want him to yell at me? To tell me I’m an idiot? 

The top of his shirt is unbuttoned so from my view I can see halfway down his chest. I try to focus on the matter at hand but it’s hard to stop myself from fantasizing about him taking me on the couch five feet away from us. Interrupting my thoughts he looks back up at me and before he does I rip my eyes off his chest. 

“How about you make it up to me by letting me buy you dinner.” 

How about we skip dinner and go straight to dessert, is what almost comes out of my mouth. I mentally weigh my options and the possible outcomes. If I agree, we’ll go to dinner and he’ll drop me off at home. If I say what I’m really thinking and actually want, he will either go along with it and we’ll do it on his couch, or he’ll tell me to get out and never come back. Usually, I can easily read men and know what I need to say to get what I want. But with him, I can’t tell yet. Especially because he seems adamant about his no model-fucking rule. 

I decide to play it safe for now.

“Deal. But I’m paying for dinner.” I assert, crossing my arms again, ready for him to oppose me. 

“Sure.” He states and pushes himself up off the desk. “Where do you want to go?” 

I blink twice, taken aback. That didn’t go the way I thought it would. I thought for sure he wouldn’t agree to me paying.

You see, there’s nothing I dislike more than when men pay for everything for me. It’s a stupid thing to be anal about but I don’t care, I don’t like accepting anything from men. Guys I’d go out with would fight tooth and nail to even get me to accept a birthday present and I’d always insist on us splitting the bill. The fact he just so casually agreed to me paying even though he has more money caught me all the way off guard.

“You can pick,” I answer as he walks over to flick off the studio lights while I take off the white long sleeve from the shoot. 

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks as he clicks off the last light. I put on the oversized black tee I came in and think for a second. 

“Pasta always. Spaghetti.” My favorite food. My nonna would cook it for me every day. No recipe will ever be as good as hers, but I could still eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I join him at the top of the stairs that lead into his apartment. “I thought you would say something fancy like ribs or steak. If you want spaghetti, I can cook that for you.” He steps to the side, motioning for me to go down first.

I pause and motion the same back to him. He puts one hand on his hip and leans the other on the railing, amusement across his face. He makes direct eye contact and holds it longer than usual. “You might be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. Has anyone ever told you that?” I hold his gaze. “Yup, stubborn and smartass. Those are the two I hear the most.” I hold up two fingers then raise a third. “Oh, and pretty.” 

He bites his lip trying to suppress a smile and starts down the stairs. “I mean the last one is a given,” he says in a low voice. 

“Japanese people know how to make spaghetti?” I follow him down, only one step in front of me I can feel his body heat. 

“I mean, not spaghetti exactly, but Ramen’s close enough. Ramen is to us like spaghetti is to Italians. So I can probably figure out how to cook decent Italian spaghetti.” I hear a smile in his voice. Earlier we had a 20-minute debate on Japanese and Italian food and whose country has better dishes. Ultimately, we settled on Italian pizza and pasta, Japanese seafood and curry rice.

We finally make it to the bottom of the long winding stairs but before the last step, he turns around. “By the way, I wanted to ask you something.”

He steps up, closing the one-step gap. We’re now at the same height, a few inches apart. He’s so close I can smell his sweet and musky cologne. So close that if I moved my head forward ten inches my lips would be on his. He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by his pocket ringing. It takes him a second to break eye contact but he finally reaches and looks at the screen and answers. 

“Hi, Jamie.” 

Jamie. His little brother.  We’ve learned a lot about each other in such a short time. I don’t know what it is, but something about him makes me trust him. It’s so easy to talk to him and I feel like I can talk about anything.

Because of how close we are standing, I can hear their conversation. I want to leave and give them privacy but Jordan leans against the railing, his entire body blocking the exit. He just listens with his eyes stay on mine. Between a couple of mhm’s and yeah’s I can’t even tell if he’s paying attention. He’s so close I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear my heart beating out of my chest. About 2 minutes into the conversation, Jamie starts going on a tangent about the weather over there. Jordan puts his phone to his chest, covering the speaker.

He mouths, “Rain check?” I reluctantly nod. 

I’m not going to lie and say that I’m not a teeny tiny bit disappointed. After a few more seconds he turns and starts back down the stairs. We reach his front door and elevators and he puts his phone to his chest again. 

“Text me when you get home.” 

The elevator dings. I walk in, and up until the last second before the doors close his eyes never leave mine. 

I resist the urge to text him and ask what he wanted to ask me. I’m secretly hoping that whatever it is makes him get that close to me again. Even though I’m not so sure that I could stop myself from grabbing his face and viciously making out with him.