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I heave a shaky breath, holding my tears at bay. “She got sick, and there was nothing anyone could do. She was gone three months after the diagnosis.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. How old were you?”
“Seven. She was a journalist too, you know.”
“Really?” He cocks his head with interest.
“Yeah, she wrote for the Daily Mail. Not exactly fashion, but it still inspired me to become a journalist.” I show him the folder. “It contains all the articles she ever wrote. My dad was very proud of her. He’s the one who put this together.”
Wade takes the folder and turns the page carefully, reading some of her pieces.
“She would be really proud of you,” he says after a while, pulling me against him and squeezing my shoulders. My heart hammers in my chest. Usually, I would try to shut it down, but this time, I close my eyes and let it be for a minute, enjoying the warmth that’s seeping into my body. In this very moment, I’m just a girl being comforted by her boyfriend. I refuse to open my eyes, knowing it will all be over when I do.
14
Offside
Roxy
“So, where do you want me?” Wade asks as he strides into the Fashion Warehouse studio. It’s the only studio we own. Not very big, maybe five hundred square feet, but it bears all the necessary elements for a simple but professional photo shoot. The first look I selected for Wade is flawless. A grey Reiss sweater that matches his eyes while outlining his muscles, a pair of black Burberry trousers that show off his strong calves, and a silver OMEGA watch. I tug on the hem of the sweater to adjust the fit, trying to keep my hands from trembling. Satisfied, I ask him to spin around.
I eye him up and down—purely to assess the look, of course. “Good. We can get a couple shots of you sitting on the stool, and then a few standing up. Do what feels natural. Well, I’m sure you know,” I say, blushing a little. “It’s not your first modeling gig. Mario will suggest a few poses too.”
Wade nods, flexing his arms and fingers in front of him before cracking his neck. “Let’s do this.”
I take my position behind Mario, our in-house photographer. Every time he snaps a shot, the image appears on a small LCD screen on the side. Wade is a natural in front of the camera—just as I expected after having studied his previous shoots.
“No one from his PR team is here?” asks Carol, the magazine’s creative director, as she peers over her cat-eye glasses at the near-empty studio. She and Orla, my boss, both dropped by to see the shoot—which is a big first for me—and she’s right. Except for Mario and his crew, we’re the only ones here.
I plaster on an awkward smile. “No. Since we’re, em, dating, he told his publicist it was unnecessary. He trusts me.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Orla says, smoothing her blonde bob. “Just make sure they approve all the shots and the article before you submit your feature. We don’t want to encounter any legal problems if you do win.”
“Of course.” Turning back to the screen, I can’t contain my smile. I’ve been working like mad on this article—writing, rewriting, editing—and I’m excited about where it’s going. Coupled with this smashing photo shoot and what Orla just said, I’m more confident than ever in my chances. My biggest competition is still Melanie and her well-stocked address book, but for once, I actually have a shot.
Two hours and three outfits later, Mario is armed with hundreds of pictures to choose from, and we quickly survey them on the screen. They’re all gorgeous, but I already have my favourites. He writes down the numbers of the ones we like. I still ask him to send me the entire roll when he’s done retouching them.
“That was fun. I like what we got today,” Wade says as we’re exiting the building. “It’s refreshing to do a shoot without a ball, for once.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “I’m not going to lie, I was hesitant about that. But I’m glad we went without it. The article doesn’t solely focus on football. It’s about you as a person, so the cover should reflect that. Plus, I don’t think you need to be holding a football for people to know who you are.”
He just smiles, glancing away as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you free Saturday night?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Only if we’re eating at the base of the pyramids in Egypt.”
Laughter lines crimp at the corners of his silver eyes. “Every time, it’s something crazier. What’s next? The African savannah?”
“Why not?” I joke. “I’m down.”
He shakes his head, flicking both brows up. “Sorry to disappoint again. But what I’m suggesting is a charity event in west London.”
“Oh, what charity?”
“It’s called Little Kings. I’ve been involved with them for years. They help fund the passions of kids who have nothing.”
My stomach flutters. Could this guy be any more alluring? “That’s amazing. I didn’t know you were involved in charity work.”
“Yeah.” He scratches the light stubble on his chin. “I try to do what I can.”
