Brothers of Paradise Series

Her voice reaches me easily in my small bathroom. Everything in this apartment is small. Square feet is an endangered species in Manhattan. “The last time was never!” she says. “They’re always asking you out or judging you on your looks and you hate it, Ivy. You also hate when someone is angry at you or doesn’t like you. Ipso facto, this photographer is like your specially designed kryptonite. A man who doesn’t immediately swoon. You’re in trouble.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Can you imagine how unprofessional that would be?” I force my suitcase open to fit my toothpaste inside. “Not to mention I don’t like him. He’s an overgrown trust fund brat. I’ve seen my fair share of them.”

“Mhm.”

“Give me a little credit, Penny. Getting with a photographer would be beyond irresponsible.”

“But wouldn’t it be romantic?”

I shoulder my suitcase over to the door. It’s tiny in comparison to the gigantic Samsonite the agency sent over with all of my outfits. “What time is it?”

“A quarter to nine.”

“The car should be here in ten minutes.” I give my handbag a last check-wallet, passport, keys. “I’m going to miss you.”

Penny bounds up off the sofa and wraps me in a hug. Her hair smells like it always has, papaya and coconut. She’s used the same shampoo since she was fourteen. “Have the best time,” she tells me. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip.”

“I’m going to enjoy every minute,” I promise.

“Good. And don’t let a spoiled photographer or dear Dad get into your head.” She pulls back, grinning. “Or me. I’ll be here, protecting your apartment for you.”

“That makes me feel so safe.” But I’m smiling too, ruffling her hair. She ducks under my hand and grabs a hold of the Megalodon of a suitcase.

“I’ll help you bring all this stuff down. And you’re really traveling alone? They’re not sending someone with you?”

“No, just me and the photographer. But there will be ground staff in each location.”

She lifts the giant into the elevator with a huff. “This is a workout, Ivy.”

“Workout clothes. Did I pack that?”

“Yes, I saw you roll it up all neatly.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Penny winks. “But you can work out in other ways. Hot foreign models, hot challenging photographers…”

I shove her and she shoves me back. But she stays on the sidewalk as I step into the black Town Car waiting outside, waving to me as it speeds away toward JFK. Away from Manhattan and the life I’ve led, from the only country I know.

The photographer might not like me, but I’m not going to let him take away a single minute of enjoyment from this trip.

Ivy

“Ivy Hart?” The man asking is in a suit, a black cap on his head and an electronic sign in hand. And on it, my name is written in capital letters.

I’ve only been traveling for six hours, but it’s already exceeded all of my expectations. Rieler Travels has gone all out. Business class seating on the plane-I did not know you got as much champagne as you wanted-and someone to pick me up? Never had my in-country travel in America been like this, not on any of the shoots I’d attended in Los Angeles.

“That’s me.”

He reaches for my bags. “Welcome to St. Barts, miss. Or is it Mrs.?”

“No, just miss.” I glance over my shoulder for Rhys, as if he might magically appear out of thin air. Wouldn’t surprise me if he could, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Hadn’t been on the flight, either.

“Is this your first time here?” The name on the tag reads Étienne. He speaks with a thick French accent. I’d been reading up on the plane, and now I know absolutely everything there is to know about St. Barts, from its time as a Swedish colony to its incorporation as an overseas territory of France.

“Yes, it is. I’m very excited.”Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

His smile widens. “Why, I get to play tour guide too! My favorite role.”

Warm, humid heat hits me the second we step out of the air-conditioned airport, but it’s not overwhelming. The parking lot is tiny, just like the airport is tiny. Because this island is tiny.

Étienne drives to the other side of the island, as he says, but it takes no time at all. He tells me stories throughout, of the island’s cultural makeup, of the French and Portuguese who inhabit it. My eyes are glued to the passing landscape of green hills and glimpses of blue water. At one point I consider rolling down my car window, but think better of it when I realize I’ll be sitting with my head out like a dog.

“Here we are!” Étienne slows to a crawl as we arrive at Rieler Resort. The road is lined with palm trees, and beyond them, a sliver of beautiful turquoise water glistens.

I can’t believe I’m here!

Étienne parks outside of a beautiful villa with a straw roof and begins unloading my large suitcases. “Right through there,” he says with a nod to the reception. “They’ve been expecting you.”

And so they have. Attentive staff help me with everything, from checking in to rolling in my luggage to showing me the way to my room.

Although I can’t really call it a room. It’s a poolside and oceanside villa, one on either side, with the largest king-size bed I’ve ever seen. Perhaps this life is normal for really high-end models, but not for most of us. Work is usually shooting in warehouses in Brooklyn or changing backstage for shoots while stylists scream at you for buttoning a shirt wrong. This kind of glamour, on the other hand…

I throw myself on the bed. It’s like floating on a cloud.

I let myself float for a solid five minutes before I bounce back off and head to the double doors that open up to my own private patio. The itinerary is clear. We’re not to start shooting until one of the local staff knocks on my door for hair and makeup. So I’ll stay put. It’s not a particularly hard place to be.

I’m taking pictures of the view for my sister when there’s an impatient knock on the door to my villa. “Be right there!”

Reaching up to tug my ponytail into place, I pull open the door with a smile.

It dies when I see the person on the other side. Rhys is in a button-down and slacks, a camera in one hand and a scowl on his face. Judging from the tan that dusts his skin, he’s been here for a while already. When did he arrive?

“Good,” he says. “You’re finally here.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I arrived right on schedule.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go shoot.” He takes a step back and nods toward the beach, like I’m to follow him right here and right now. Dressed in jeans. With my hair undone.

“I can’t shoot like this,” I tell him. “Besides, the itinerary clearly says that we’re to start in an hour and a half. I have hair and makeup first.”

The bastard actually looks up at the sky, like I’m being impossibly difficult. “The light is excellent right now,” he says slowly. “I’d like to shoot now.”

“All right. Perhaps you can shoot scenery? But for our shoot together, I’m sticking to the schedule.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of modeling, it’s that you don’t disobey orders regarding a shoot. “There is no way Rieler Travels wants me photographed like this. I’m not even wearing makeup.”

Rhys pushes a hand through his dark hair and mutters something that sounds very much like vain models. Right, buddy, as if you’re a peach.

“It’s my job,” I grind out. “So I’ll see you in… an hour and a half for our scheduled shoot to begin.”