12. Corn Dog Couture #3
“Come on, just ask me your question.”
“Hm?” I blink, pulled from my thoughts.
She studies the corn dog as if it might talk back to her. “You want to know why I’m on TOP, right? I obviously don’t need the money, and if I feel like an... object when I model, why would I put myself through more of that online?”
“Because when you’re on TOP, it’s the only part of your life where you’re...on top.” I smirk, watching her lips part in surprise. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
She blinks. “No, it doesn’t. It takes someone who pays attention though.”
How could I not? She commands it. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. And to be honest, paying attention to her is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Every little movement, every word, it all pulls me in.
“So, um...” She brushes the moment away, balancing her food on her knees. “What’s your question then?”
I hesitate, not knowing where to start. “You must make a lot of money on TOP, right?”
She looks genuinely surprised as she leans back, her fingers digging into the dewy grass. “Ten thousand on a good month.”
Holy shit.
“And modeling . . . that must pay well too.”
“Depending on the show,” she says. “I can make anywhere from five to fifty grand for a single show or shoot. Before taxes.”
Holy shit?
I rest my forearms on my thighs. “So why...” I clear my throat, wary of offending her. “I know you said you’re happy with your life, but you’re old enough to get your own place. To choose what you want to eat.”
“Oh. You want to know why I still live with Beatrice.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
She shrugs. “She keeps the modeling money—that’s what we live off.”
So that’s how they afford their lifestyle. Beatrice lives on Charlotte’s shoulders.
“Wait, so, technically . . . you’re paying me?”
“Hmm. Yeah, technically, I am.”
Great. Even more reasons for this to be wildly inappropriate.
“Plus, she’s my agent. All my connections in the modeling world are her connections first. If I left, I’d lose my job.”
“And you want to keep modeling?”
“Until someone from TOP narcs on me.” She sits up and brushes the dirt off her hands.
“I mean, what should I do instead? I don’t have a college degree.
I’m not smart, or good at something . I’m no good for anything except putting my clothes on and taking them off.
Performing for people who just want to see my body. ”
The words feel like they shouldn’t belong to her, like they make no sense. But she says them like they’re a fact.
“Which is why I probably shouldn’t eat this.
” She takes the untouched corn dog off her lap and offers a small, resigned smile.
“Look, Beatrice can be a bit...I mean, I hate her half the time. But the bottom line is this is all I know how to do. And if I want to continue modeling, I have to follow her rules.”
I stare down at my own corn dog. Now I regret suggesting we get them. The last thing I want is to make things harder for her.
“What about your art?” I ask.
“My art?”
“Yeah. You’re always sketching.”
“Oh. That’s not art, it’s just clothes.”
Just clothes?
I think of the way she talked about people who got their shit together later in life. I assumed modeling was what she wanted to do because they were big names in the fashion industry. But Vera Wang, Christian Dior, Anna Wintour...they’re not models—they’re stylists, designers, critics.
“You design clothes. That is art, Charlotte.”
She nods, looking almost shy now. “Well, I don’t just design them. I make them.”
My brain scrambles. “Wait. You sew and...whatever else making clothes entails?”
She laughs. “Yes, Aaron. I sew and whatever else making clothes entails.”
“Seriously? Have I ever seen anything you’ve made?”
“You’re looking at it now.”
I glance down at her red dress—it looks made for her., because it is .
“This? You made this?”
She nods. “Most of the clothes I wear are my own.”
My mouth falls open. “Wait—so the black two-piece? The dress with the corset? And the—shit—the jeans skirt? You made those?”
Her smile widens. “You’ve been noticing my outfits?”
I notice everything about you .
“Hard not to,” I murmur. “It’s just—the way you dress...you’re not wearing your clothes. It’s like they’re a part of you. Which I guess they are.”
Her shoulders roll back, like she’s standing a little taller despite still sitting on the curb. “What’s your favorite?”
Oh, fuck. How am I supposed to pick?
Maybe . . .I glance down at the lace edging her décolletage, at the tiny satin-covered buttons lining the side .“This one. It’s really . . .” Hot. Inappropriate. Perfect. “ . . . pretty.”
She fondly looks down at the dress. “It’s my favorite too.”
“It shows.”
She glances down at her corn dog. “I could make something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah. Your clothes kind of...lack personality. No offense. You’re not your clothes—you just wear them.”
She’s right. I don’t give a single shit about what I wear. But if she made something for me, I’d wear it until the seams frayed and the fabric turned to dust.
“Wouldn’t you rather work with that instead of modeling?”
She shrugs. “Beatrice always says that it’s a horrible waste to hide a body like mine behind the camera.”
Oh, wow. She’s the actual worst.
“Or,” I say, turning to her, “you could just have the body you want, eat corn dogs and pizza until you have love handles and a belly, and do what you love.”
Her eyes widen like I’ve just suggested she jump into traffic naked.
“What? You think you wouldn’t still be astonishingly beautiful if you put on some weight?”
She frowns. “I’m not fatphobic or anything. Some of the most beautiful women in the world are curvy. Paloma Elsesser, Nicola Coughlan, Sugar High.”
I blink. Sugar High? “You’re kidding.”
“What?”
“Primrose—that’s my brother’s fiancée.”
She gapes at me. “ You’re kidding. Sugar High? She’s an icon! Her following is insane, and, oh, she’s just so unique. Her outfits, and her confidence. I can’t believe you know her.”
I laugh, genuinely amused. “Know her? I drove her home from the hospital, watched her pass out with baby spittle on her shirt.”
She’s still staring at me like I’m riding a unicorn. “Unbelievable.”
As our laughter fades, I point at her lap. “You know, she’d eat that corn dog.”
She glances at the offending bun again, lips pressing together.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I add. “But she wouldn’t let someone else decide what she should eat. What her body should look like, what she should do with her life, or what she’s worth.”
For a moment, there’s a warm fondness in her eyes. Then, almost too quickly, she brings the corn dog to her lips, takes a huge bite, and moans obscenely. “Oh, fuck.” Her head drops onto my shoulder. “Tell me again how beautiful I’d look carrying some extra pounds?”
“ So beautiful.”
She grins, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to lean forward and kiss her.
It takes even more not to admit that if she asked me to, I would.