Read Online SECRET Revealed by L. Marie Adeline - Free Book Online
Authors: L. Marie Adeline
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hand. “Here you go. To relax you.”
“No thanks,” I said, carefully placing the glass back on the makeup table. “I’m already relaxed.”
Marsha looked at the champagne and then at me. “Oh, I could weep,” she said before kissing me on the cheek good-bye. She turned on her heel and made her exit.
“Let me introduce you to Erik,” said the blond assistant, leading me by the elbow across the room, the remaining assistants giving the impression of seas parting as I entered Erik’s orbit.
“Erik, this is Solange Faraday. The weekend anchor.”
He was directing a gaffer high up on a ladder, the muscles in his arms tensing, his voice commanding and deep.
“To the left and down. I want the spotlight right … there … where the screen creases on the floor.”
“If this isn’t a good time—” I said to him.
“Nonsense,” he said, turning to face me, looking me up and down. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Good lord, my breath actually caught in my lungs. Up close he was like an African/Asian/Nordic god, and though I hated the term
exotic
, I couldn’t think of another way to describe his almond-shaped, gray-flecked eyes, his thick wavy brown hair, his crooked, bratty smile, his brown skin, which looked partly genetic and partly the result of some death-defying adventure that took him way too close to the sun. He was closer to my age than I’d thought at first, something I found a huge relief, though I don’t know why it mattered. When did I start doing that? Comparing men’s ages with mine? After I turned forty? After I stopped feeling noticed by anyone under forty?
“Hello. Um, so … where can I change?” I asked, turning into a schoolgirl. Next to this man, I felt almost petite, delicate even.
Pull yourself together, Solange! You’ve done important, dangerous reportage too
.
“Use my bedroom.” He pointed to a door flush with a large white wall.
“You live here?” I asked, surprised.
“I sleep here,” he corrected. He was smiling again,showing one chipped front tooth, the kind of offhand flaw I’d always found terribly sexy. I felt my face heat up.
His bedroom was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling steel factory windows, glossy white trim. The walls were white too, and the dresser white-stained oak in a matte finish. The king-size mattress was on an oak platform and covered in a white duvet and pillows. It was the kind of room where a lot of sex would take place, a room where children definitely were not allowed.
My garment bag was hanging on a bare rack in the middle of the room. I decided to throw on my gold blouse, not one I usually wore to work because it plunged a bit, but I was feeling, I don’t know, like being noticed. Like being looked at, by him.
When I entered the work area again it was quiet, no gaffer, no camera assistants, just the blond assistant neatly laying out makeup brushes in front of a lit-up mirror.
I took a seat and crossed my legs.
“We’ll just focus on the eyes, I think,” she said, looking at me through the mirror. “Make them pop. You don’t need much. You glow on your own.”
She was talking about me, not to me, and yet I still blushed.
“Is this blouse okay?” I asked the assistant, suddenly feeling flustered and self-conscious, like the blouse was too low, or maybe not low enough.
“It’s lovely,” she said, picking through the brushes. She didn’t seem to have a great handle on the tools of her trade,let alone the colors. I soon began to look a little garish. When she pumped the mascara tube ominously, I had to stop her.
“Look. I know photos require a bit more makeup than usual, but I am not sure this lipstick suits me.”
Her face fell. She was clearly nervous. “Normally I do my own eyes at the network,” I said. “Do you mind?”
“Yes! I mean no, by all means, I don’t mind. We just want you to feel totally comfortable and sexy.” She exhaled, utterly relieved.
“I just … want to look like
“No thanks,” I said, carefully placing the glass back on the makeup table. “I’m already relaxed.”
Marsha looked at the champagne and then at me. “Oh, I could weep,” she said before kissing me on the cheek good-bye. She turned on her heel and made her exit.
“Let me introduce you to Erik,” said the blond assistant, leading me by the elbow across the room, the remaining assistants giving the impression of seas parting as I entered Erik’s orbit.
“Erik, this is Solange Faraday. The weekend anchor.”
He was directing a gaffer high up on a ladder, the muscles in his arms tensing, his voice commanding and deep.
“To the left and down. I want the spotlight right … there … where the screen creases on the floor.”
“If this isn’t a good time—” I said to him.
“Nonsense,” he said, turning to face me, looking me up and down. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Good lord, my breath actually caught in my lungs. Up close he was like an African/Asian/Nordic god, and though I hated the term
exotic
, I couldn’t think of another way to describe his almond-shaped, gray-flecked eyes, his thick wavy brown hair, his crooked, bratty smile, his brown skin, which looked partly genetic and partly the result of some death-defying adventure that took him way too close to the sun. He was closer to my age than I’d thought at first, something I found a huge relief, though I don’t know why it mattered. When did I start doing that? Comparing men’s ages with mine? After I turned forty? After I stopped feeling noticed by anyone under forty?
“Hello. Um, so … where can I change?” I asked, turning into a schoolgirl. Next to this man, I felt almost petite, delicate even.
Pull yourself together, Solange! You’ve done important, dangerous reportage too
.
“Use my bedroom.” He pointed to a door flush with a large white wall.
“You live here?” I asked, surprised.
“I sleep here,” he corrected. He was smiling again,showing one chipped front tooth, the kind of offhand flaw I’d always found terribly sexy. I felt my face heat up.
His bedroom was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling steel factory windows, glossy white trim. The walls were white too, and the dresser white-stained oak in a matte finish. The king-size mattress was on an oak platform and covered in a white duvet and pillows. It was the kind of room where a lot of sex would take place, a room where children definitely were not allowed.
My garment bag was hanging on a bare rack in the middle of the room. I decided to throw on my gold blouse, not one I usually wore to work because it plunged a bit, but I was feeling, I don’t know, like being noticed. Like being looked at, by him.
When I entered the work area again it was quiet, no gaffer, no camera assistants, just the blond assistant neatly laying out makeup brushes in front of a lit-up mirror.
I took a seat and crossed my legs.
“We’ll just focus on the eyes, I think,” she said, looking at me through the mirror. “Make them pop. You don’t need much. You glow on your own.”
She was talking about me, not to me, and yet I still blushed.
“Is this blouse okay?” I asked the assistant, suddenly feeling flustered and self-conscious, like the blouse was too low, or maybe not low enough.
“It’s lovely,” she said, picking through the brushes. She didn’t seem to have a great handle on the tools of her trade,let alone the colors. I soon began to look a little garish. When she pumped the mascara tube ominously, I had to stop her.
“Look. I know photos require a bit more makeup than usual, but I am not sure this lipstick suits me.”
Her face fell. She was clearly nervous. “Normally I do my own eyes at the network,” I said. “Do you mind?”
“Yes! I mean no, by all means, I don’t mind. We just want you to feel totally comfortable and sexy.” She exhaled, utterly relieved.
“I just … want to look like
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