It’s cold. You cannot believe it is this cold in Barcelona, even for November. You fold your arms across your chest as you exit the Metro station on your way to work. You left your car at home today because you thought the exercise would be nice, but you now think it was a mistake and would like to keep your arse instead of it freezing off.

You glance at the clock on your phone. It’s nearly nine. You’re late.

Merda.

You quicken your pace and send some thanks to god for a lot of practice hurrying in high heels.

“Gràcies,” you say to the doorman as he opens the door for you with a smile and a nod.

Inside the lobby the air is warm, and you take off your gloves and head for the elevator. You’re the only one waiting to ascend, so you remove your beret as the doors close in front of you. You check your reflection in the shiny metal and fluff your hair with your fingers.

You emerge in the lobby of DT Lux Magasine rosy-cheeked and smiling, ready for whatever the craziness of working for a magasine can throw at you today.

You find your way to your desk in the fashion department. Dressing men wasn’t as ‘fun’ as dressing women was because you couldn’t wear the outfits you put together, but it did have its ‘perks.’ The large, open area was already buzzing with activity as your coworkers flitted about like excited bees.

“What’s on the schedule for today?” you ask Pol, the guy whose desk is next to yours, as you shed your coat and hang it on the back of your chair.

“It’s the Valdés shoot today,” Pol replies with a smirk and a quirk of his perfectly shaped eyebrow.

The Valdés shoot. You’d forgotten. In the madness surrounding the holiday looks, you’d forgotten the next month’s coverboy was Victor Valdés, FC Barcelona and Spain keeper.

“Oh I see.”

You search your desk for the manila folder with your sketches of each look for the shoot and pull it out of a stack of the others for the December issue.

“You ready?”

You look up to see your boss, Andreu looking at you expectantly, eyes worried and biting on his lip.

“You bet.”

You stand and follow him, trying to remember how you could have forgotten the shoot today.

You walk by the the set, a long white backdrop hung from the ceiling, on your way to the back.. The area is calm, just the two lighting designers and photographer finishing up some touches with the stand-in.

The back area, however, is loud and busy, with people everywhere. Wardrobe has the two racks of clothes on the shiny metal racks, all ready for you to get them together and to Senyor Valdés.

Speaking of him.

“Anyone know where Senyor Valdés is?” you inquire or any and every one around you.

“Dressing room, ready to go,” María informs you.

You nod and gather the first look, a plaid Hugo Boss three-piece suit with a white shirt and red bow tie. Technically you don’t have to deliver the clothes yourself, but rather ensure everything is good to go on set. But you prefer to do it your way and make sure everything is smooth every step of the way. You double check everything before going down the corridor to knock on the closed dressing room door.

“Senyor? Wardrobe.”

The door opens and Senyor Valdés peers out. He’s wrapped in a cotton robe, already been through hair (ha – what hair?) and make-up. He smiles and you feel your stomach plummet.

You’re not a Barça fan, but you’ve seen him play on television a few times. Always from far, strange angles. You’ve seen photos on the covers of Sport and Marca on the newsstand on the way to the office.

Nothing could prepare you for the way the corners of his mouth quirk up and his eyes twinkle when he smiles. He’s beautiful. Tan skin, dark eyes, strong arms, a single hoop earring, and all you can think about it how much you want those large, touch keeper’s hands of his on your skin.

“Hola, nena,” he says politely when you don’t say anything.

“Uhm. Hi. Here’s the first look.”

You hand him the clothes and hurry away before you embarrass yourself further. You’ve dressed many models before. So many. But none of them had the raw, sex appeal that Victor does.

You pace next to the set and try not to picture what was beneath his robe. Sinewy, strong muscles under taut smooth skin…

You shake your head to clear it as he appears on set in the suit.

You weren’t ready for it.

Victor stands squarely, waiting for you to check the clothes over. He’s a pro at this, knows what to do. But he looks so…dapper you just have to swallow hard and smooth his lapels with hands that tremble.

“You okay, nena?” he whispers with a wicked grin, fully aware that no, you’re not okay and playing it to his advantage.

You nod and motion him onto the white backdrop.

He glances at you over his shoulder as he walks away and catches you staring. Every stride is full of confidence that screams “I know I’m hot. Get it,” and you can’t help it.

You feel the heat rush to your face and he smirks.

On the set, he works the camera like the most seasoned model, without needing much direction from the photographer, who just clicks away. It’s over before you know it and you’re gathering the next look, following him back to the dressing room.

The process is repeated for four long hours and by the time it’s over your knees feel week and your head feels light with unfulfilled desire. Watching Victor in front of the camera is nothing like you had ever experienced. As an athlete, he is acutely aware of every part of his body at all times and knows how to move, how to pose, to make it look its best.

You both return to the dressing room, you to gather the previous outfit before he changes and as you pick up the sweater from the back of a chair he closes the door.

“Were you watching me or the clothes?” he asks with another smirk.

“You,” you admit without a trace of guilt or shame. After all, who wouldn’t? Even your assistants were.

He pulls you to him.

Tbc…