Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

18. Willow

Chapter 18

Willow

“ W

elcome, Miss Jordan,” the lead bellman says, actually bowing to me as the chauffeur helps me out of the black car. Since I refused to charter my own jet all the way from Paris to Kiawah, I flew into New York on one I shared with about ten other models, including Heena. Then I transferred to a chartered plane for the last leg of the trip from New York to Charleston, and then I had a driver take me the last hour out to Kiawah. Safe to say, I’m exhausted and jetlagged.

“Thank you.” I nod politely to the man and sneak a cash tip into the hand of the chauffeur after he passes my bags to the bellman who spoke to me. There are two other bellmen out here, staring at me from behind their podium. “Is my family already here?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jordan are here, along with Miss Maple. Tim will show you to your room,” the man says, waving over a tall, dark-haired young man.

Tim steps forward, practically tripping over himself, and clears his throat. “It would be my pleasure.”

I smile at him, and we walk through the huge double doors and into the lobby . I pause in the large foyer, taking a moment to look around. Straight ahead is a large sitting area, the wood floors covered with sectionals, coffee tables, and oriental rugs. The wall behind has plenty of large windows and glass doors to highlight the great, unnaturally green lawn and the ocean beyond it. To the left of the sitting area, across the grand walkway, is a dark bar room decorated with comfortably worn leather armchairs and model schooners. To the right is the same room mirrored, but with tea tables replacing the bar, coupled with pink wallpaper and fresh bouquets. When my gaze sweeps back to the center of the lobby, I realize everyone, guests and staff alike, is frozen in their tracks, staring at me.

Why didn’t my parents just rent a house? Staying at resorts is always so uncomfortable, no matter how private or exclusive they claim to be. People stare, no matter what. It makes my family seem like zoo animals.

“You must be very popular,” I muse to Tim.

He barks a surprised laugh, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks at me. “I guess my SoundCloud career is finally taking off,” he plays along.

“So, where’s my room?” I ask, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on me but unsure which direction to head down.

“Technically, you can get to it either way,” he answers. “Your family is in the President’s Suite, which is right above us—” he points upward, “—three floors up.”

“Then let’s go this way,” I say, headed to the right, past the pink room. “I like flowers more than boats.”

“Fair enough,” Tim responds, overtaking me to lead the way to the elevator.

“Why is it that the dark, masculine room gets the bar while the feminine room gets tea? Seems like a bit of a message there,” I find myself saying, the sleep deprivation loosening my tongue .

“I don’t know, but it’s been that way as long as I’ve been here,” he answers.

I angle my head sideways to look at him as we reach the elevator and he presses the button. He really can’t be any older than me, judging by his youthful face. But he has a shadow of a beard—probably from missing a shave—and a built body. Around twenty or twenty-one years old. He’s tall—about 6’2—and handsome with a very symmetrical face. He could definitely model if he wanted.

“But, I could bring it up to management,” he adds awkwardly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” I respond. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, if that’s any excuse.”

“No worries. I’m sorry for staring at you, too. I mean, when you first pulled up. We get celebrities here pretty often, but rarely someone as huge as you, and?—”

“Huge?” I laugh. “I know I’m tall, Tim, but no woman likes to be called huge.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” he says, face reddening.

“Relax,” I say as the elevator dings. “I know what you meant.” I step in and he follows, clicking floor three. “I know it must be hard for you to have to talk to me,” I half-joke. “Thanks for taking one for the team and showing me up.”

“It’s my pleasure, really. You’re much nicer than I thought you’d be,” he adds with a smile.

“I’m glad. Prepare yourself for Aspen, though. She’s a diva,” I joke.

His face pales a little as we exit the elevator. “Really?”

“Not at all. I like to think that all of us Jordans are pretty nice and normal once you actually talk to us. But I know we might seem a bit daunting. ”

He nods, stopping in front of a door and knocking. “Just a little.”

My mom opens the door, squealing and pulling me into her arms in a tight hug. “Willy! I’m so glad you’re here,” she says into my ear, still gripping me tightly.

“I’m glad I’m here too, Mom.” I grin as she finally lets me go. “You look good.”

Something indiscernible flickers in her expression before it melts off into joy again. “Bobby!” she calls behind her. “It’s Willow!”

“Enjoy your stay,” Tim says from the doorway. I give him a quick wave as he exits, letting the door softly close behind him.

“Willow! How were your flights?” my dad asks, pulling me into another bone-crushing hug.

“They were good. Lots of travel. I’m happy to finally be here.”

“Well, you just need to take it slow for the next couple of days. I know fashion month is hard, and you need some time to recover. We all have a spa day reserved tomorrow, which should help.”

“That sounds perfect. Thanks, Mom. Where’s Maple?”

“She’s taking a walk on the beach,” my dad answers. “But she’ll meet us for dinner. Speaking of, would you rather stay at the restaurant in the hotel or ride across the island and go to the one on the golf course? We have reservations at both, so it’s up to you, Will.”

I plop down on the surprisingly firm couch—ow. “Let’s just stay here. I’m exhausted.”

“Perfect,” my dad says, clapping his hands in a distinctly dad-like way. “I’ll call now to sort it out. Want to hit the bar first?”

“Honey, she’s tired. Let her rest,” my mom answers for me .

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go with you, Dad. Just give me an hour or so to nap.” I sigh, glancing down at my sweatpants. “And then another fifteen to change into something a little more presentable.”

“Of course, take your time,” Dad answers. “They haven’t even brought your stuff up yet. I’ll tell them to just leave it outside your door.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, heading toward my room.