BEWITCHED & BOTHERED

10 ✰ Afternoon, October 5th

I did a stellar job lying to myself the whole morning.

Even as I lashed on a couple extra coats of mascara than usual, went heavy-handed on the concealer and straightened my wavy red locks to death, I told myself it was just another gig.

And although I sidestepped my usual working attire (professional button down French-tucked into my favourite straight-cut silk trousers) and opted for an edgier, grey bandeau and St. Laurent leather pants, I convinced myself I just felt like dressing up to work this time.

When I cast aside my suede ankle boots and slid my feet into purple Jimmy Choo sandals, I did so to show off my (semi)fresh pedicure.

My choices had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was going to see Magnus again.

When I arrived at the shoot location that afternoon (a warehouse lot refurbished into a photo studio on the Upper East Side), I was doing a magnificent effort telling myself just that, until Hugo saw me and let out a long, wolf whistle that reflected off the steel beams on the ceiling.

"I think you got the brief wrong, honey, 'cause you're dressed more like the subject, not the stylist."

There were two other people there, an unfamiliar man in glasses and Stacey Mendoza, a hair and makeup artist I've worked with on other shoots before. Both their eyes scanned me from head to toe.

"God damn, girl. He's not wrong." Stacey said, cocking her head with a bewildered expression. That was probably code for: what the hell are you wearing?

I caught my reflection in the window beside me.

I looked ready for Milan fashion week.

Rolling my eyes, I flipped Hugo off and he smirked, turning back to set up his camera and lights for the shoot.

I spent a good amount of time at the entrance, struggling to lug in three heavy suitcases from the outside hallway in my dainty sandals. The suitcases were filled to the brim with men's designer clothing on loan especially for the shoot. I hoped some of them fit Magnus' sizeable frame, at least. What was he, over six feet tall and made of pure muscle?

My stomach did an anxious flip.

"Hey let me help you with that," Spectacled Man offered just as I nearly tripped myself hauling the second luggage over the threshold. He slipped one hand into the luggage handle, his other clasped gently over my forearm to steady me.

The skin of his palm was soft, like they'd never seen a day of hard labour.

Much like mine, to be honest.

"Thanks," I said after regaining my footing. He gave a curt nod and let me go.

Spectacled Man hoisted the third luggage with his free hand quite effortlessly. For someone as lean as him, I was impressed by his strength. I eyed the curve of his biceps as the sleeves of his polo stretched under the tension.

He definitely goes to the gym.

"And what is my hero's name, I wonder?"

He straightened up to face me with a lazy smile stretched out on his lips.

"That would be Simon Novak."

Ah, the journalist.

"And what of my damsel in distress?" He asked, lazy smile lifting upwards in one corner.

"That would be Lena Winters," I parroted him with an outstretched hand, but when I noticed his arms were occupied, I gave his arm a friendly pat instead.