Lola & the Millionaires: Part One (Sweet Omegaverse #2)(11)
“It’s our best this year, easily,” Cyrus said, leaning in. “And I’m not too proud to admit that this is the kind of concept I should be pushing, not my assistants. You’re getting the credit for this.”
I was keenly aware of the lingering haze of Baby’s perfume hanging over my shoulders and in my hair as Cyrus stared at me. And while his focus was intense, he didn’t seem to be showing any of the usual alpha signs of arousal or aggression, signs I knew intimately.
“Good,” I said, nodding, and he grinned.
“Good. There’s a photoshoot we have planned this Friday, mostly of Zane’s arrangement. I’d like it if you came with me and him.” My eyes widened, and Cyrus waved a hand between us. “Don’t stress about it. I want you to observe, but someone will probably ask you to get a coffee or two.”
“That’s fine,” I rushed to say. Coffee fetching had been more along the lines of what I’d been expecting in my first week, so I wasn’t about to act like I was too good for it now.
A magazine shoot. With models and lights and professional makeup artists and the clothes. For a moment, in pure excitement, I forgot that I was alone in a room with an alpha I barely knew. A pure laugh, bright and surprising, rose up from my throat as my cheeks stretched and filled in the biggest smile I’d worn in months. When I looked up, Cyrus was at my side, my breath catching and muscles tensing, the laugh dying on my tongue.
“Way to make a splash, Lola,” he murmured.
Cyrus was tall, towering over me and making me tilt my head back to look at him. When he reached out to squeeze my elbow, I skirted back, his fingers barely skimming my skin. He was already backing away, heading for the door, and my heels continued to carry me back as my breathing came in soft gasps.
Control, I chanted mentally, stretching the word to match my slowing breaths. Betty had said that Cyrus was perpetually flirtatious but never crossed any line with his employees. A touch on the arm might be overly affectionate for a boss, but he hadn’t lingered or squeezed the way my old boss at the restaurant usually did.
“Get your shit together, Lola,” I muttered, twisting away from the door and moving to reorganize the products we’d pulled for the mockup.
“Americano flat,” I said, passing Zane his coffee with a quick nod, before heading over to the lighted booths where the models were getting their makeup prepped.
The rest of my first week had passed more or less as I’d expected. I learned my way around the photo editing programs we tended to use, practiced writing copy, and did the more basic assistant tasks I’d been prepared for like shipping products we passed on back to the companies. No one had blinked on Friday morning when Cyrus called me with Zane to head to the photoshoot, and I was relieved to see that the beauty editing team wasn’t as catty and competitive as Betty said the fashion editors were.
I dropped espressos and non-fat lattes off to a few models who were busy holding still for their artist before taking the last over to our big star of the day—Rakim Oren. There was a massive alpha, taller even than Cyrus and twice as broad, hovering against the wall facing Rakim, but he made no move to stop my approach and kept his ice blue eyes over my head. My hand was shaking slightly as I neared the omega, a heady cloud of chocolate and caramel scented perfume hanging around him. It was a mouthwatering sweetness, airier but possibly even richer than Baby’s.
Rakim Oren was one of the most famous and recognizable omegas in the world.
He was stretching in front of the mirror, tan brow furrowed and neck arched as if he was inviting an alpha’s bite, his crystalline green gaze glaring at his own reflection in the mirror.
“Honey and soy,” I said, resting the coffee cup on the only available inches of the counter, ready to back away.
“Is it just me or does this look crazy uneven?” His voice was smooth and coaxing, more masculine than I’d expected against his innocent, open features. He had dark short hair, curls damp against his forehead, and a dense but close beard.
I glanced down at his shoulder and frowned as I stared at the splotchy, rushed coverup of foundation on his skin. It looked cakey, the sponge marks probably as clear as whatever they’d been used to cover.
“It’s…yikes, yeah.”
Rakim sighed and rolled his eyes—eyes that took one look into a camera and made a company hundreds of thousands of dollars. “It’s Courtney. I swear she leaves everything to post. Like, we didn’t hire a makeup artist so someone could airbrush me invisible in photoshop, Courtney.”
My lips twitched, and I was ready to make my escape again when I saw him reach for a foundation that was a shade or more too light for his skin to really blend.
“Not that one,” I said.
Rakim Oren’s hand froze over the bottle and his eyes slid to mine, a dark brow arching. “That’s the one she used.”
“And now you’re splotchy,” I quipped, sighing as his lips curled. I pointed to two of the ignored options. “Blend those together and then powder with the one she chose.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.
I looked him over, more objectively. The lights on the mirror were good, but the ones for the shoot were warmer, and makeup was picky in high-resolution. Courtney, whichever of the women dressed in black that was flitting around the room, was right that touch-ups could be covered in the post-editing, but Rakim was right that it could also be done correctly beforehand.