Brothers of Paradise Series

A faint knock breaks us out of the stand-off. I glance at my door. “It’s not mine.”

Ivy struggles and I let her go, watching as she flies off the bed. “It has to be the hair and makeup artist the agency hired. And I’m supposed to be showered and ready!”

I grin at her from my sprawl on the bed. “Better hurry.”NôvelDrama.Org holds © this.

“Damn it.” She pauses with her hand on the interconnected door. “Stop looking so smug.”

“This is just my face.”

She rolls her eyes and closes the door behind her. I tuck an arm under my head and look up at the ceiling, my mind straying back to thoughts that won’t make my hardness disappear anytime soon.

Yeah, I feel ten feet tall all right.

Ivy is nervous at my side, despite having her game face on. How do I know that? Because she’s softly tapping her high-heeled shoe against the steel floor of the elevator, currently barreling us more than a hundred stories high.

“Relax,” I murmur.

She glances at me. “I am relaxed.”

“Mhm.”

The elevator slides to a smooth stop atop Singapore’s most famous building. The rooftop is one easily recognizable from movies, from pictures, and hopefully also by people interested in buying one of Rieler’s travel packages.

We step out into a tastefully decorated waiting area, following the hostess. “We’ve set up a table for you out here…” she says, leading us to the very edge of the outdoor bar. Singapore spreads out around us, the giant, sprawling city-state on one side and the turquoise-colored sea on the other. The beautiful water is littered with container ships, ready to make port or depart.

Ivy sits down on one of the barstools, the tight dress she’s wearing making it difficult for her. What’s up with her agency and always putting her in the most infuriating clothes?

She pushes a perfectly blown-out lock of hair behind her ear and looks at me with eyes that are rimmed black. The makeup artist has made her look like… well, like a damn model, that’s what.

The effect is almost unsettling, like she’s someone else. Not the woman with rosy cheeks and sleepy eyes I’d woken up next to at dawn in a Kenyan desert.

Ivy accepts a glass of water gratefully from the waiter, but I notice how her hand curls around the edge of the table. I step closer. “Ivy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not a particularly good liar,” I say, putting my camera down on the table. “Tell me.”

She looks out at the view before quickly returning her gaze to me. “I’m not a fan of heights,” she tells me. “I don’t hate them. I’m just not a fan.”

I nod, glancing past her to the beautiful city beyond. “But you don’t have a problem with views? Through windows?”

“No, not when I’m inside. But I’m not inside, we’re outside.” She shakes her head. “I know it doesn’t make much sense.”

Well, if she’s expecting me to judge her, she has another thing coming. I’m not in a position to judge anyone, certainly not with my… aversion to flying.

“Okay,” I say, reaching out to put a hand on her bare shoulder. Her skin is warm under my hand. “That’s okay. We don’t have to shoot here.”

The look she gives me is exasperated. “Of course we have to. It’s on the list.”

“Not if it’s taxing for you.”

“I’ve shot more taxing things than this,” she tells me, like she’s gearing herself up. “I’ve had a shoot that was underwater. One that had me lying on a bed of roses, and they were thorny.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m a model.” She shrugs. “We get all kinds of jobs.”

I frown. “Okay, so we’ll get this shoot done as fast as we can and then we’ll be off.”

She slides off the barstool. “All I have to do is focus.”

“Just look at me,” I tell her, taking a few steps back to get her entire form and the view. “Nothing else.”

She nods and slowly, ever so slightly, her face relaxes. She slips back into the model mask I’d seen her wear before, the one where it’s impossible to read her eyes.

“Good,” I say. “Just look at me.”

She nods imperceptibly and poses by the table, a glass of champagne in her hand. Other guests move behind me, but I ignore them, solely focused on her. And she gives me the same attention.

I don’t shoot more than fifteen minutes. There might be other angles to try, but none of that matters, not when I see that her foot is constantly tapping away at the ground.

“Come on,” I tell her, pulling her toward the elevators. “We’re done up here.”

“But… don’t you need more shots?”

“Fuck the shots.” I press the button for the elevator and find the small of her back. Touching her is becoming like a drug, my hands taking any excuse possible to meet her skin. She leans into me in the elevator.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Don’t mention it.” If I could figure out a way to stop flying, I’d do it too, but my wanderlust is still too powerful.

People watch us walk through the lobby in a way I’ve become used to by now. Ivy is dressed to the nines, the fabric of the dress she’s in clings to her form, her long legs on display in a pair of high heels.

She breathes a sigh of relief when we get in the cab and she closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.”

“Don’t apologize.” I give the cab driver the name of a dumpling restaurant, one of Singapore’s best, and turn to look at her again. Her color is slowly rising.

“I should work on it.”

“Not while being photographed.” My traitorous hand finds another excuse, reaching for hers. Her fingers feel slender inside my hand.

Whatever spell she’s cast, I’m thoroughly under it.

“Where are we going now?”

“To eat something before we go back to the hotel.”

Her eyes open a tad, locking with mine. And there’s no need to speak aloud for the communication that passes through us.