Paint Me Beautiful

practicing this walk for ages, and I hope to hell it's paid off. It may not be my best skill, but if it's good enough and my pictures are good enough, maybe they'll take me on.
    I turn and out of the corner of my eye, I see Emmett clapping. He's the only one doing it, and it's a little weird, but it makes me smile. Good thing the agency reps can't see my face now. I hit the end of the runway and pose again. I'm staring at a faux wall that's been constructed to give a slight bit of privacy to us in this busy commercial hub. There are people leaning over the railings from above and gaping from either side of the runway, but that's okay. That's what we're here for: to be looked at.
    I turn around again, still a model, still perfection in heels, and walk right back towards that panel like I'm stomping for Alexander McQueen or something. The other girls are not following suit, so I know that I am standing out, for better or worse. When I hit the table, I don't pose, just reach out and grab my portfolio. It hasn't been touched. That much is obvious.
    “ Thank you,” I mumble along with the other girls. Nobody stops me as I walk away. Right off the bat, I begin to analyze my performance. Did I walk too fast? Too slow? Did I swing my arms enough?
    “ You were really great,” Emmett says as I pause next to him. Honestly, I had forgotten his existence. I feel a gentle flush warm my cheeks and try to give him a genuine smile.
    “ Thanks,” I say as I reach up and let my hair tumble down around my shoulders. I fluff it with my fingers and shake my head a bit. Emmett's brown eyes follow my motions, drink me in like I am the cat's meow. I like that, so my smile gets bigger all on its own. My sister thinks I'm narcissistic, but that isn't it at all. I'm just focused on my dreams and those dreams depend on my appearance, so I pay attention to it. That's all it is. My stomach growls a bit, and I lay my arm across it to keep it quiet.
    “ Want to grab something to eat?” Emmett asks, and I want to say yes, but I can't. I ate a lot this morning anyway, and my stomach is just riled up from all of the anxiety.
    “ Aren't you working?” I ask as I point a finger at his apron. Emmett pinches the straps with his fingers and grins at me. He has long canines that peek out of his lips a bit when he smiles. Cute.
    “ You mean this?” he asks as he drops the fabric and adjusts his beanie. “I'm just about to get off for lunch. Have you ever been to The Winged Ones? It's this fantastic sandwich shop that has a roof garden upstairs. It's a diamond in the rough, really. My treat.” His offer is appealing, to be sure, but I have an early morning casting, and I can't be tired or I get these massive bags under my eyes. It's an open call for a print campaign, too, which is rare and not something I can screw up. I bite my lip gently and try to let him down easily. He really is nice.
    “ I can't,” I say and he groans, reaching up to pull his beanie over his face.
    “ It's the apron, isn't it?” he asks as I take a moment to admire the swell of his muscular arms and the way his right eye peeks out from beneath the black knitted hat to examine me. “Hey, I understand though. You're wondering why you should be interested in a guy who works at the Super Smoothie , right?” I chuckle and shake my head.
    “ Not at all,” I say because that isn't it. I just have other things on my mind right now. First and foremost is how I'm going to be able to skip out of family dinner again. I've gotten away with it six days in a row, but tonight, Marlena is coming over, and there is no way she's going to miss my absence. Unfortunately, Mom has also chosen tonight to make her famous fried chicken. All of that grease makes me sick to my stomach, but I know I won't be able to escape that table without eating at least a piece. Already, I feel nauseous. “I just have this family thing tonight, so … ” I trail off and tuck some hair behind my ear. I feel like I'm in high school again. “How about Friday?” I blurt before Emmett gets the chance to say anything else. He pulls his beanie off his head and lays it in his lap. His brown hair is mussy and totally sexy.
    “ Friday is perfect,” he tells me and then passes me his phone. I plug in my number and hand it back to him. I could take his number, too, but I won't remember to call. It's nothing personal, but it's all up to him now. The ball is in his court. If he calls, I'll go. If he doesn't, then