5. Brooklyn #2
Luka laughs, and his grin is sheepish. “Fair enough. I’ll admit I lived a privileged life of excess and hedonism for…
well, a while. But like you said, there’s been a lot of turmoil in my family over the past few months, and it shook us all up.
Watching your dad go to prison for sex trafficking kind of takes the flavor out of things. So, I don’t know. I’ve changed.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say, ripping a hot piece of crusty bread apart and letting it soak up some oil and herbs before popping it into my mouth. I close my eyes and stifle a moan. It’s perfection.
“You’re making that innocent bread look downright sinful,” Luka says, his eyes glued to me.
“Sin with me, then,” I say, pushing the basket toward him. “It’s that good. And then go ahead and try to convince me that I have any interest at all in a sham marriage.”
“That’s a tall order,” he says, digging into the bread. “Especially considering that I don’t have the gift of negotiation and persuasion quite like my brother and…father seem to.”
He says the word father like it’s distasteful, and I’m quick to smooth over it.
“I imagine that you’re very persuasive,” I say carefully, trying to keep any hint of accusation out of my voice. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you feel inferior to them in some way.”
My voice is light and teasing and he takes it that way, grinning as he crosses his arms on the table and leans over them. “You got me. The truth is, I’m the black sheep of the Zoric family. It’s easy to prove. Just look at my profile.”
He turns his head to the side, and I laugh, not at all sure what he’s up to.
“It’s a very nice profile.”
Scoffing, he turns the other way. “Look at this side. Do you see it now?”
“Again, very nice.” Very, very nice.
“You flatter me—but I’ll have you know that I’m the least photogenic of the family, by far. Which is ironic, isn’t it, considering what our family business is?”
“That’s a terrible shame.”
“It is. I mean it’s tough, having to walk around with a paper bag over your head during the holidays and family functions, trying not to mess up any group photos.”
The mental image is so ridiculous I have to laugh. I can’t believe we’re flirting like this, and that it feels so easy and natural.
“But you know,” I tell him, “everyone takes a bad photo once in a while.”
He reaches over to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek for a split second. Don’t react, I tell myself. Just, don’t.
“I highly doubt that you’ve ever taken a bad photo, Brooklyn.”
There he goes again, saying exactly the right thing. Charming me. Making me want. I shake my head and pull away to grab my wallet from my purse. “Oh, yeah? Be prepared to be proven wrong.” I tug out my driver’s license and hold it against my chest. “Come on, yours too. Fair is fair.”
He fake groans and makes a big deal of pulling his out of his wallet. Then he tosses it across the table and plucks mine from my fingers. I pick his up and let out a laugh. He’s hot as hell, but that picture is something else.
“This is like a straight-up mug shot,” I say, before realizing I’ve just said the most awkward thing in the world to someone who did indeed get arrested a few months back.
But when I look up at him to gauge his reaction, he’s got the biggest smile on his face. “To be honest, my mug shot looks way better than my driver’s license,” he says. “Google it.”
Now we’re both laughing, and I have to remind myself that this is the same man who lied to me, who used me, who doesn’t even have the decency now to remember my face.
He hands my license back. “Okay, I was wrong. This is a terrible photo of you.”
Just then, the waitress appears with our meals. By the time she leaves, I’ve composed that part of myself that wants to just run away with the superficial lust between us. Setting my napkin on my lap, I press my palms into my thighs.
“Tell me what the point of this whole marriage thing is,” I say, cutting to the chase.
He gives a slight nod. “Sure. Got a little distracted there.”
My stomach tightens in expectation of what he might say. The pasta smells amazing, but I’m not sure I can take a bite right now. Luka, on the other hand, digs right in. He notices that I haven’t touched my food, sets his fork aside, and clears his throat.
“So basically, the reason for all of this is that my reputation needs work in light of my father’s recent arrest. The disgrace he brought down on the business and our family name is no secret, and with him in jail, I’ve been the media’s scapegoat.”
I nod. “Makes sense. People are angry. They need someone to take it out on. Not that it’s fair to you.” I finally start on my spaghetti as he leans back, seeming to gather his words.
“Even with every other member of our family being cleared of any wrongdoing, and the fact that my older brother pretty much handed my father over to the feds on a silver platter, we’re still struggling to regain the public’s confidence in us. As a business and as humans.”
“Sure,” I say, pausing to blot my mouth with my napkin before continuing. “I mean, I was floored when I heard about it. It made me think twice about going to the audition today, and whether I wanted to be associated with the Zorics at all.”
It comes out sounding harsher than I meant, but Luka takes it in stride.
“I’m sure you’re not the only one who feels that way,” he says.
“All the KZ models were released from their contracts after the scandal broke, and not all of them signed back on with Danica Rose. We lost some great talent. Not that I pity us. A lot of people got hurt, taken advantage of. Lives were ruined. Something like that rips people’s trust away pretty deeply. ”
He looks off, thinking hard, and I finish chewing and set my fork down.
“So things are royally fucked right now,” I say matter-of-factly. “Not to salt the wound. And it’s your job to sway public opinion back into a positive light.”
“Yes. My brother and I agreed to use our collective influences to make over the Zoric empire’s image. But since I’m the resident bad boy and he’s happily married and settled down, I’m the one who needs to change my lifestyle in a big and very public way. And fast.”
I pause for him to go into detail of said lifestyle, but he resumes eating.
I feel a little smug, though, because I know exactly what he’s talking about.
His online presence is flooded with images of him clearly intoxicated, out with a different woman every night, sometimes more than one.
He parties hard. He fucks hard. He spends money hard.
Luka Zoric has always been a diehard playboy.
It hits me just then, what’s different about him. He’s shed some of that old skin. And now he seems contemplative, and a little bit lost, like he’s not sure what to do next.
I might have a few ideas.
He takes a long drink and then gives me a pointed look. All signs of flirting are suddenly gone. “Here’s the deal. It’ll be a two-year commitment, maybe three, depending on public response. After that, a very amicable and quiet divorce and you’ll be free to live your life.”
My mind is already racing with the “what do I get out of it” portion of this conversation. The part where I use him in return for using me. I’ve never been that kind of a person. But here? Now? With Luka Zoric? I just might be.
“You’re the ideal candidate,” he adds. “You’re well spoken, accomplished, and you have a good background. And not to be a dick, but you’ll look amazing on my arm—which in this business really matters. Plus, your philanthropy work is great PR for both of us.”
“And what do I get out of it?” I reply without missing a beat.
He starts talking more animatedly, really getting into it.
“You want a contract with us, right? I’ll sign you right away and send you out on the most prestigious calls, get you in all the major campaigns and runway shows.
You act as my wife, and we’ll do everything in our power to make you a supermodel.
” He pushes his plate to the side and leans toward me.
“Plus, if my image is cleaned up and the rep of the agency bounces back as planned, that will help you out as well. It’s a win-win all around. ”
I let out a long breath.
“I really just want to be a model,” I tell him. “Taking part in a marriage—even a fake one—is a huge thing to ask of someone. My life won’t be my own.”
“Come on, Brooklyn. Do you know the kind of press and attention you’ll get just from being married to me? You’ll have professional power like no one else. Every photographer and designer that matters will be bombarding you with opportunities.”
I shift in my chair, my jaw going tense. These pie-in-the-sky promises are sounding eerily familiar. And after the shit he pulled three years ago, there’s no way I can trust him.
“Thank you for dinner, Luka, but I’m leaving.”
I stand and grab my purse. It’s satisfying, looking down at him and seeing how intently he’s watching me.
“The answer is no. Thanks again for the opportunity.”
I spin on my heel and leave. That’s right—I’m the one leaving him this time. And it feels almost as good as it would have if we’d gone to his penthouse.
On second thought, nope.
This feels much better.