Tyson sat in Reception, shivering a little and trying not to look too obviously as though he was using his shoulder bag as a sort of shield. Glad though he was that Parker, May & Co.
had turned out to be legitimate and not just a front for something seedy, he couldn't help feeling very out of place.
The room was a magazine advert for minimalism; the walls and ceiling were painted white, the carpet was steely grey and orchids on glass tables were the only nod to decoration.
Looking around, Tyson was less reminded of a modelling agency than the expensive dentist his mom had taken him to that one time. At least no-one would stick braces on him here. He hoped.
He glanced at the intimidatingly beautiful receptionist, sat behind her desk. She'd been so sweet when he'd come in, offering him coffee and telling him to make himself at home.
Tyson couldn't imagine feeling at home here, and that was just in reception. He had a whole shoot to get through and God knew how that was going to turn out.
He already felt as though he'd tracked mud and country-bumpkin cooties over the floor just by being there. What if they took one look at him and said no?
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