“I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Ms. Riley,” Ms. Winters said - and she was indeed Ms. Winters. Anyone daring to call her Melissa, with the probable exception of Karen, the photographer I mentioned before, would very quickly learn the error of their ways. “If I hadn’t so much respect for my dearest friend Erika and the amount of work she’s put into her inheritance here, I’d be trying to poach you for my modeling agency right under her nose.”
I wanted to think she was joking, but her tone, expression, all seemed to suggest this was not something she would joke about. I had no idea what to even say to that.
“Thank you,” I managed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for modeling.”
“Nonsense,” Karen spoke up as she approached us now, having photographed me at least half a dozen times from different angles beforehand. “Anyone can be trained how to stand, walk, smile, pout, but a natural team player is worth double her weight in gold.”
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