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I had made a mistake, all right, but it wasn’t in the math.
It was in forgetting that my ex was still on my bank account. He’d taken it upon himself to empty it. I had another for incidentals that he had no access to, but 90 percent of my money had been in that one account.
Resting my head in my hands, I shook it, trying to rid myself of this hole I’d dug. Clint sucked for touching money that was mine. Earned by watching every bite that went into my mouth. Checking the mirror daily for changes in my body. Getting DEXA scans to make sure my body fat composition was in check. Putting up with handsy managers and, even worse, photographers.
Starving myself only to come home to a rageful, controlling mate who claimed I was his but refused to mark me.
I would’ve gladly taken his mark, even though scars and tattoos were frowned upon in the modeling industry.
Sitting up straight, I looked out the window and smiled. The town I’d grown to love was right outside. I was one payment away from being my own boss for the first time. Telling myself when and how hard to work.
Serving shaved ice to kids and adults alike. Making people smile instead of being told to smile by some arrogant ass behind a camera. And if I gained an inch around my waist…there would be nobody to try to make me lose it. Quitting my personal trainer was the best day of my life to date.
And it was likely to stay the best day if I lost my cart because of previous bad decisions. Time to find a way to make that payment. Clint wasn’t going to win. I was sure this was all a ploy to get me to crawl back to him. To tell him that he was right. I couldn’t do this alone. That I needed him. To beg for his help—oh, that was what he loved the most—when I begged.
It had been three years since I left him, and I’d put him almost entirely out of my mind. That was my only excuse for not remembering to take him off the account. He’d never touched any of the money until a week ago. We’d originally put him on the account because we were a couple. According to him, I was his fated.
The one he would spend the rest of his life with.
I wasn’t the only one he made those promises to.
The curtains were pulled back, letting the morning sunshine in. I got up and stared out of the window, seeing the families walking along. Couples holding hands. Kids high-fiving as they played soccer and chase in the park across the street from my house.
Oliver Creek was the small town of opportunity. A bustling little city/town, and I knew once I saw an article on it that it was the place for me.
I could do this.
The town news. Yes. Maybe there was a job opportunity there. Someone in this town needed something done.
It might take a while, but I would make it. I had to. I needed to prove Clint wrong and myself right.
Opening my laptop, I clicked on the internet and opened the newest bookmark. Oliver Creek News.
The site was mostly for the people who lived here, but I’d looked at it thousands of times before taking the plunge.
The employment section had very little. I didn’t know how to be a barista. No knowledge of wine making or grape picking. Birds weren’t really my thing.
Damn it. I didn’t qualify for any of these. But wait a damned minute.
Local artist seeks male for nude portrait. Serious inquiries only. Generous compensation provided.
Nude modeling? I’d done several cologne and watch commercials. Some of which only gave me a silk white sheet to drape over the private bits. Nearly nude. Underwear modeling for me had been particularly popular. Calvin Klein and Versace boxers, briefs, and even thongs. I had no problem with my body or anyone seeing it. I got over the shyness after a dozen or so photoshoots. A necessary in my former line of work.
Generous compensation. The ad didn’t say how much but, at this point, anything would help.
Anything.
I sent a quick response and was told to come right away. Get to the studio and hope the artist liked what he saw. I wasn’t so pompous to think I was every person’s cup of tea, and the artist would know what he wanted, but I had to take the chance.
I showered and put on black pants and a white shirt as instructed by an agent when I first started. He was right.
I walked out and toward the studio at the address listed on the site.
Clint wasn’t winning this time.
Chapter Three
Antoine
