Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Shelby
W hile I sit and watch the rest of the meeting play out, this time focusing on the meeting and the businessman I’m here to interview, I take notes. It gives me time to come to my senses. It also leaves an opening for me to wonder if I’ve completely screwed up.
My mind, hell, not even that, but my entire body, has become a threat. It doesn’t matter how much I try, how much I force myself to focus on each member of his team and what they’re saying. It’s as though my brain has split. One side is doing what it’s supposed to while the other zeros in on Spencer, on every aspect of his attire, his demeanor, the way his mouth moves as he speaks, and his eyes light up when he’s excited about a particular suggestion.All ofmy bodily responses are attuned to the man at the front of the room. Everything sizzles like there’s a live wire under my skin. My body is warm. My breasts tingle. I feel flush just staring at him. I’ve never behaved like this before.
And I can’t stop it.
This is a mistake. Why? Because Spencer Hollis is not used to rejection. And for the good of my career, I have to reject him. I came here to do a job, not to fuck the job.
“Shelby? We have coffee in the next room. Perhaps you could do with a top up while the models are getting ready for the test shoot?”Spencer startles me again, though I make sure it’s lessobviousthis time.
He starts walking toward me, each step slow, decisive, almost like he’s stalking me. Then he’s standing right in front of me, gesturing toward the door but wearing a knowing grin, his scent curling around me.
Yup, the bastard knows I’m attracted to him.
“Um... “I respond, almost unintelligibly, which only seems to cause that slight turn of his lip to increase. “That sounds like a great idea. Thank you.”
When I stand to follow the others from the room, my legs feel a little unsteady, like I’ve been sitting too long in one position. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. I smooth down my skirt, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake, and offer a tight smile to the room, a silent apology for my earlier lapse in professionalism.
Spencer’s hand brushes against my lower back, a fleeting touch, barely there, yet it sends a jolt of electricity through me. I stumble slightly, and he’s quick to steady me, his hold lingering a fraction of a second longer than necessary. My skin tingles where we connect, the warmth spreading like wildfire.
“Careful,”he murmurs, his voice a low rumble close to my ear, his breath hot against my already over-heated skin. It’s a casual gesture, the kind a friend might make, but the context, the tension that’s been simmering between us since last night, makes it feel… charged. Dangerous.
I manage a weak thank you, but my voice barely registers above a whisper. My cheeks burn, and I curse my fair skin and inability to hide my reactions. He probably thinks I’m a complete mess. A starstruck idiot. Which, professionally, I’m determined not to be.
Personally, is another story.
As we walk together to where the coffee service is laid out, conflicting thoughts are dancing around in my head. What am I doing? This is crazy. I’m here to do a job, not fall for my story’s subject. But God, he’s so attractive, so charming. And I can’t deny the chemistry between us.
I note how his suit hugs his broad shoulders, and his eyes sparkle with amusement and concern. But he’s a flirt, a billionaire. He’s used to getting whatever he wants. I refuse to be another notch on his bedpost. I have to stay professional and focused on my career and my goals.
I glance over at him. Yikes. I need to be strong to resist this attraction. But how can I when everything about him reels in like some fish caught on a line, making me dream of more?
We walk through the open doorway into a smaller, adjoining room where a long table draped in white linen holds an array of pastries, fruit, and an impressive coffee service. The air is filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a welcome contrast to the boardroom’s slightly sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere. I head straight to the croissants and the berry compote. Unbeknownst to Spencer, I already sampled the offerings earlier, worried that if I didn’t get something into my stomach, my hunger would make itself known and interrupt the entire meeting.
Spencer gestures towards the coffee urn. “Help yourself. I know you big-city journalists need your caffeine.”
He isobviouslyreferencing my small-town residence in Kingston, but I don’t take it as a snide comment. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, a hint of that playful arrogance I’d glimpsed last night. It should annoy and put me on guard, but it has the opposite effect. It makes me want to spar with him. To prove I’m not some naive small-town girl easily impressed by his wealth and charm. Although, it appears I am. It’s not his wealth; I could care less about his bank account. That charm of his, though… As they say,I’m apparently falling for that hook, line, and sinker.
“We small-town journalists need our coffee just as much as you big-city billionaires,”I retort, trying to inject a bit of playful defiance into my tone. “But we’re discerning. We prefer quality over quantity.”I reach for a delicate cup, avoiding his gaze, needing a moment to compose myself.
He chuckles a low, throaty sound that does naughty things to my insides. “Touché, Ms. Bailey. Touché.”Spencer pours himself a cup, the dark liquid swirling in the white porcelain. The cup looks small in his large hand. “Well, I assure you, the coffee here is of the highest quality. The hotel prides itself on it. So, no excuses not to have your fill, even if it might keep you up all night instead of dreaming of who knows what.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward into an I-know-what-you’re-thinking type of smile, making my stomach twist witha combination ofexcitement and nerves.
I wish I could come up with a witty or snarky comment in return. Or, better yet, turn the topic back to work. Instead, I meet his eyes and stare back, unflinching, challenging his expression silently and without reservation. It’s not easy, but Imanage tomaintain the look through pure will.
His right brow slowly arches, making me pause to recognize that his body signaled me again.
The man doesn’t give up, whether intentional or not.
“So,”I say, turningso I canlook directly at him. “The model you choose for the magazine cover. Does that mean he or she gets a trip back to Quebec City?”
He arches his eyebrow in response to my little outburst, and a faint, suggestive smile spreads. He is not going to back down. It’s both impressive and terrifying, all in the same motion.
“We’ve already narrowed the selection, and the majority will appear within our publication regardless. But yes. A winter story in Quebec City means we’ll need additional content to create the full story and other supplemental articles. I intend to dedicate the entire edition to the holidays—food, décor, family traditions, the like. Today we make our preliminary choices about the cover model specifically and maybe locations. And then my team will bring those chosen back for a full photo shoot.”
“So today are just preliminary shots? I mean I guess since it’s summer, and we don’t have snow year-round regardless of what some non-Canadians may think.”
He laughs, and I melt some more. “Yes, we will take seasonal photos when it’s time, but we can also use fake snow if necessary.”
“Okay then. So, when will you have time for me today?”
“As in, when will the interview happen?”
“Yes.”
“Whenever, and wherever , you’d like.”The emphasis on that one word makes it even moreobviousthis is a dance. A game. A chess match.
I suck at chess.
My mouth wants to ask the questions, but my mind is spinning. Instead, because I am here as a journalist and not as a visitor, vacationer, or date, I turn back to the coffee and stare into my cup as I lift it to my lips and take a small sip to avoid staring deep into his eyes. I feel like a kitten stalking up to an experienced lion, ready to pounce but knowing I can quickly be tamed.
Or stepped on.
We’re outside the ballroom where the photo shoot will take place, so the air smells like fresh espresso and a hint of perfume from the models waiting nearby. Inside, the camera crew is setting up. Out here, everyone is hanging out, relaxing for a few moments beforegetting backto work.
Spencer standsnext tome, his posture easy, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze as he scans the hallway. Even at rest, he’s always working. “What do you think of the models so far? Do any of them stand out to you?”
His question surprises me. I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. “Well, I think they all have unique qualities, but to be perfectly honest, I’m still curious about the criteria for choosing the cover model.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “The obvious being their physical beauty?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I said that.”
“Don’t be. Beauty is part of the business. But we’re looking for something more. A sense of confidence, a spark, something that makes a model unforgettable in a single frame. The ones who stand out today will be shortlisted for the cover and editorial spreads.”
I nod, feeling a bit more confident. “And once you’ve chosen, what happens next?”
“Contracts. Some models have long-term agreements with us. Others are booked per shoot. Their pay depends on experience, exclusivity, and usage rights. A cover model, for example, earns more because their image drives sales. If we want to use the shots for more than just the magazine—ads, social media, promotional campaigns—that’s a separate negotiation.”
I take notes furiously in my notebook, pausing briefly to look at him. “And what if a model doesn’t meet your expectations? Do you have a plan B?”
“We always have a plan B. But I prefer to trust my instincts. I believe in giving people a chance to prove themselves.”
Spencer’s eyes never leave mine; he’s caught me in a snare, and heat spreads through me. The tension between us is palpable, a mix of professional challenge and underlying attraction.
Speaking of… I need to think about my job, so I change the subject. I take a sip of my coffee, then look up at him. “So, walk me through it. What does it take to plan a shoot like this? Or an entire edition of the magazine?”
He nods toward the group of models huddled near the ballroom door. “It all starts with a vision. For the holiday issue, we’re selling more than fashion. We’re selling a feeling. Holiday magic. Romance. The kind of winter magic people dream about.”He gestures slightly. “Quebec City is the perfect backdrop. The lights, the history, the charm—it all feeds into the story we want to tell.”
I jot down more notes. “And today?”
He exhales slowly as if shifting gears in his mind. “Today is the day we decide who makes it to the final shoot. We’re looking for presence and versatility, something that makes a model unforgettable in a single frame. The ones who stand out will be shortlisted for the cover and editorial spreads.”
I watch as one of the models shifts her weight, adjusting the drape of her coat in a tall mirror set against the wall. “And the rest of the magazine? How far ahead do you plan all of this?”
Spencer smirks. “You’re already thinking like an editor.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I hold his gaze.
“We’re always working ahead,”he continues. “Right now, December is in production, January’s plan is being finalized, and we’re mapping out spring. But the holiday edition is a big deal. It’s aspirational. People want to feel the season in the pages as they flip through them. The right cover, the right images—they have to make someone stop in a checkout line or pause mid-scroll.”His eyes flick toward me. “That’s why this weekend matters. Quebec City is giving us everything we need.”
I study him hard for a second. “And what about you?”I ask before I can stop myself. “Are you getting everything you need?”
His lips curve, slow and deliberate. “That depends, Shelby. Are you?”
Before I think of a response, he turns to refill his coffee, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. It feels like a dance, this push and pull, a testing of boundaries. And I’m starting to realize I enjoy the challenge, the thrill of the chase. And the hell of it is, I think I’m the chaser, not him.
Maybe?
Have our roles flipped, and I’m completely oblivious? He is a billionaire playboy, after all. This could just be another game to him.
My head begins to reel because it all feels too comfortable and happening too fast.
“So,”I say, taking a deep breath and changing direction again. “Where exactly do you want me during the photo shoot? Watching the models work, observing, watching you make decisions? Back in my room?”
He turns to me, his expression surprisingly earnest. “Everywhere, Shelby. I want you to see it all. The good, the bad, the messy. I’m not interested in a puff piece. I want you to understand what we do here, how we create magic. And…”he pauses, his gaze locking with mine, “…I want you to understand me .”
The intensity of his gaze makes my heart skip a beat. And we’re right back to where we were a mere moment ago. Maybe at the same spot we started from last night in the bar.There’sa vulnerability in his eyes, a genuine desire to be seen and understood, at odds with his carefully crafted public persona. And it’s disarming. I want to peel back the layers to discover the man beneath the wealthy, flirtatious facade.
“Consider me interested.”
He nods.
I wait.Surelythis moment calls for more of a response.
The pull is palpable andobvious, but I ignore the sensation and head toward the ballroom, knowing he’ll follow.
Beyond theheavysound-proof door, chaos greets my senses. Bright lights shine in one corner, and I hear the incessant clicking of professional photography mixed with the sounds of assistants scurrying, music playing in the background, stylists rushing models onto sets, all speaking a mix of rapid French and English. I try to stay put but notice I keep side-stepping to avoid finding myself in somebody’s way, like watching a really good dance routine at a wedding, Istep back quickly from a model hurrying in front of me.
Spencer’s warm, steadying hand brushes against mine as he joins me. I stumble a little less and recover faster, but my pulse does its best not to let me forget that a man I want very much is within breathing distance.“Sorry,”I mouth to him quietly over all the buzz.
I’mstarting to second guess everything when all I really should want is for us to conduct a regular, professional interview so I can return home and write a glowing review of the shoot today and nothing else.
“So, what do you think?”Spencer asks in a low voice, his tone doing things I can’t beginto decipher.
I stare straight ahead to remain professional while I give a polite answer when Ireallywant to grab him by the back of the neck and yank his face to mine so I can taste the coffee he just drank, maybe nip at his lips.
“Oh, I think I’m out of my league.”