46. Drew

"Eight hundred fifty thousand? That's it? For trashing my family and abandoning my inheritance? I'll be broke in a month!"

Olivier is freaking out. He has no concept of money at all, and this lunch with Jericho in a Midtown diner has made that abundantly clear. I put my hand on his in an attempt to calm him down and shut him up. He thinks in hundreds of millions. I can sort of see how hearing "thousand" triggers him.

Jericho shoots me a look, and I'm not sure whether it's because I'm holding his hand, or she's genuinely frustrated with the situation. Either would be understandable.

Elodie, who is next to Jericho on the opposite side of the booth rushes to reassure Olivier. "It's a start, though."

The advance Jericho's publishing company is offering for this high society tell-all is 1.7 million. The issue Olivier is running up against is that he and Elodie will be splitting it. I can't wait until I get to tell him about taxes.

"Look," Jericho says. "The more you get out there to promote—TV, radio, signings—the more likely you'll earn out your advance within the year, and then you'll get royalties. You two have a great story. It's gonna sell."

"Who cares about some former rich kid's story if I'm living in poverty at the end of it?"

I give his hand a squeeze. "Baby…it's a lot of money."

Olivier glances at me. "It doesn't sound like it."

"I promise."

His lips are curved downward in the world's sexiest pout. "But not penthouse money."

"You could afford the penthouse," I tell him.

"Oh." He brightens. "Really?"

"Let's talk about it later."

He looks at me and sighs softly, his gaze tracing my face. "Okay."

Elodie speaks. "I say we go along with the engagement. Dig up as much dirt as we can, spend a ton of money in the meantime buying stuff we can sell later if we need to, like I'll get a Bentley or something…"

Jericho and I both snort laugh at the same time.

Elodie looks at me. "What?"

"You're gonna be fine," I say. "You don't need to squirrel away Bentleys and diamonds."

Olivier stiffens. "Speak for yourself, Drew. I like El's plan. It makes me feel better. It would work, too."

Jericho checks her watch. "So, can I tell my boss we have a deal?"

"I'll be much more comfortable with two million," Olivier says.

She gives him a look. "How salacious do you think this book will be? Will you be naming names?"

"For two million dollars? I'll name whoever you want," he says.

It goes without saying they're both going scorched earth on this. Elodie's torch burns a little brighter, but the more Olivier has learned about Elodie's past, and the more he's been thinking about his, the more pissed off he's gotten. In his words: "If I can't have the Upper East Side, they don't get to have it either."

How could I not love him?

"I'll see what I can do," Jericho says before excusing herself to go back to work.

Olivier turns to me. "How much is my rent?"

"I, uh…" How to break this to him. "You own the penthouse, I'm pretty sure."

"I do?"

"I mean I don't know whose name is on the deed, or whether there's a lease on it, but most of the units in the building are owned, not rented."

His eyes light up. "So I could sell it?"

"I honestly don't know."

He gets frustrated with me and faces Elodie. "How about we say we want to get our own place? That we'll handle everything. That we want it in our name or whatever."

They continue to plot the downfall of their families and the takeover of their own fortunes, both of them displaying the cutthroat ruthlessness of career criminals. It's weirdly hot, and it's making it hard for me to keep my hands off Olivier. So I rest one hand on his thigh and lean against the window, watching his mind work and his lips move and his eyes shine with excitement.

"We need to really amp up our presence on social media," Elodie says.

"So does Drew."

"Yeah, like—show that he's connected with us somehow."

"You need a new agency, you know?"

I look at Olivier who's addressing me now.

"What's wrong with my agency?"

"Are they getting you jobs? I'll make some calls."

"I—"

I was about to say I don't need his help—fuck modeling—I'm fine, but I shut my mouth. He's letting Jericho help him; the least I can do is give him a chance to help me. Once chance, though. That's all. I refuse to be his cause.

"Drew, are you okay with Ollie and me faking this through spring?"

I look at Elodie. "Uh…"

Olivier's staring at me, too, waiting for my response, and I know what he wants me to say, but I also know he'll do whatever it takes to make me happy, even if I'm not his problem to solve. It's sweet of her to ask. To think of me and my feelings in all this.

The truth is, I've become okay with a lot of things since they agreed to take this meeting with Jericho. "I think you should go through with the wedding. You're more likely to get ownership of the penthouse. But I still think you should sell it when you get a divorce."

Olivier raises his brows.

I give him a very firm look. "Because you will be getting a divorce. Before the end of the year."

He grins. "If we make it really dramatic—like with my coming out and all, that would make a great story."

"I love you," I tell him, because sometimes it's impossible to hold in the words.

"Don't move," Elodie says.

Olivier and I freeze in place, and she snaps a photo. "Guys, this might actually work."

In termsof my failed modeling career, I'm one model of thousands at a huge agency in New York. The turnover of employees at the agency has been impossible to keep up with. I'll occasionally get an email about a casting, show up, and rarely hear back. It's been over three months since I've gotten an email like that.

When I tell Olivier where I'm represented, he scoffs. "No wonder you're not getting work. That place is a meat factory. One day you'll realize how lucky you are that you met me when you did."

Today, we're sitting in the small Midtown lobby of an acquaintance of a family friend of the Arnauds, waiting to meet the owner of this boutique talent agency. I am deep in thought and self-doubt, feeling too rough, too muscled, too masculine, and far too inexperienced.

Olivier, on the other hand—absolutely looks like he should be here. He's wearing a tight, black wool sweater, skinny black jeans, and Gucci ankle boots. I'm in the suit he bought me, as instructed, but he wants me to carry the jacket over my arm when we walk in, so it's currently across my lap. I feel ridiculous.

"Oh—how I love my job."

We look up at the small, brightly-colored man in the doorway. He's giving seventies Elton John with a gap-toothed smile and a bald head. "Let me guess. Andrew," he points at me, "and Olivier."

Olivier stands to offer a handshake. "Thank you so much for seeing us. I was thrilled when Shannon let us know you had availability."

"I always make time for a friend."

I stand, draping my jacket over my arm and introduce myself to Keats Kelly, which has to be a fake name.

After greeting me, he steps back, first looking me over very carefully from head to toe and back again, and then giving Olivier a quicker up and down glance. "Come into my office. Both of you. Your book, Andrew?"

I hand him my portfolio which spans ten years of trying and failing. Most of the photographs are proofs from jobs I didn't land, but the handful of ones I did, are cut from the magazines or printed from the online catalogs where the ads appeared.

My most recent headshot is four years old. I haven't been able to afford a new one. And there were a few less lines and a lot less weariness on my face back then. Keats takes a seat at his desk with a view of the Empire State Building behind him. It's a sunny day, and the third week of March is teasing spring.

Olivier and I sit and watch as the highly expressive man flips through my book, his face hiding nothing.

"This jaw…mmm…oh yes, this is lovely. Ah—so Armani…Love."

And then he looks at me—the actual me. Thirty-year-old, sleep-deprived, clinically depressed, but very well-fucked me. "Do you have any recent body shots?"

"No," I tell him.

He gives me a faint smile. "Would you mind if I took a look?"

I sense Olivier stiffening, but this won't be the first time I've stripped half-naked in a stranger's office. "Of course."

Keats turns his attention to my wide-eyed boyfriend. "While he's undressing, would you mind giving me a walk?"

Olivier puts a hand on his chest. "Me?"

The agent's smile broadens.

"We talked about you needing a job," I remind him.

"But we didn't come here for me."

"Oh, sweetheart. You're not competition. You scream runway. I'd just love to see a walk. Humor an old queen, would you?"

"I—"

"Walk for him, Peach," I say, amused, even as I'm unzipping my pants.

"I don't know how!"

"You've never been to a runway show?" I ask skeptically.

He glares at me and gets distracted when I open my shirt to reveal the tattoo on my chest.

Keats shows Olivier what path to walk and tells him to keep it casual. I have no doubt he'll nail it, and of course, he does.

Olivier's natural walk is overflowing with swagger, but he's nervous, and the added stiffness only makes it more perfect for a runway. I'd be jealous if I hadn't been thinking he should be a model since I first saw him.

Keats gives him a few notes, shows him a pose and a turn, then right before our eyes, Olivier is modeling those skintight clothes and boots in a way that would make Tom Ford himself empty his pockets.

I force myself to think about Peggy so I don't pop a semi in my Calvins.

"I'd love to represent you," Keats tells Olivier in a flirtatious voice.

"I'm really more interested in Drew finding work," he says.

"I'm evaluating Drew, but again, humor me. It's only my job to find you castings. Getting and taking the jobs is up to you. But you're a natural. Why slam a door shut before taking a peek to see what's inside?"

Olivier looks at me, and I nod. "I told you."

"This makes me feel like shit."

"Oh, sweetheart," Keats coos. "Why?"

"Because, you have the most gorgeous man in New York nearly naked behind you, and you're handing me a contract."

"I have more than one contract you know, and hundreds of contacts on both coasts."

Unable to keep himself from being a little shit, Olivier goes on. "It feels like American Idol," he complains. "Like when some poor girl brings her brother in to play guitar and sing background vocals for her audition, and they end up choosing the brother to go to Hollywood and send her back home to Alabama."

I can't help but smile. "One of us needs a job, baby. Just go with it."

"I have a book deal," he snaps at me.

"Not yet you don't."

"You two are just electric, aren't you? Here." Keats hands Olivier some paperwork on a clipboard and then turns to me.

"Okay…" he says appeasingly. "Your body is much better than the pictures."

"He works out a lot," Olivier says.

"I see that." Keats circles me, and I get the feeling he's using all his willpower not to touch the merchandise. "So, Drew, I have a close friend who works in the advertising industry. Multiple clients, campaigns, et cetera. You're a type that doesn't fit the standard mold."

I try not to visibly deflate, and then he says, "You're more the type one would build a campaign around. What I'd want to do with you is set up a photoshoot and try you in several looks, put together a new book, and send it to my friend. It doesn't guarantee work right away, but I can be very persuasive. You do have something special. Sometimes you just need to know the right people to break through with a look like yours."

Olivier has the smuggest grin on his face, and I have to stop looking at him.

"I have a photographer in mind, and I'm willing to share the cost for a session with him."

"How much?"

"Six thousand...split fifty-fifty."

I let out the small amount of hope I'd allowed myself.

"Done," Olivier says.

"No," I say, louder.

"He's splitting the cost," he argues. "It's not like he's not investing, and he's right. You are special, and you're gorgeous, and you'll inspire people to think outside the box. It's not like any man can turn my head, you know?" he says meaningfully.

Keats holds up a hand. "May I?"

"Please," Olivier says.

I move to stand next to him, and he slides an arm around my bare waist. I do the same, wanting to acknowledge how much I appreciate the way he continues to fight for me.

"I would like to sign you," Keats says. "I can absolutely get you work as is, but if you want the big campaigns—editorial or a designer ad—TV—the real money as I think of it—we'd need to debut you, if that helps make it make sense."

"Makes perfect sense to me," Olivier says, turning to face me. "And it's a hell of a lot better than you're currently getting."

Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with this impossibly entitled man who can simply walk into a room and get offers I'd kill for thrown at his feet?

Yeah.

I think I do.

"Give me six months and a new book," Keats says to me. "I'll give you a career you can write home about."