New Sensation

“
Hugo Boss. You smell good.”

I flashed a cheeky smile at the six-foot-two slice of pure hunk standing in front of me as I nervously attached the 50mm portrait lens to my camera.

“
Dahlia Noir, right?” he grinned back. “Givenchy. You smell gorgeous, too.”

I felt my cheeks flush at the compliment and giggled a little before looking up and extending my hand. “I’m Amy.”

"Amy Reid," he smiled, shaking it. His grip was firm but not too tight – respectful, almost. He placed his other palm on the back of my hand as he shook it and I felt a little tingle run up my arm, all the way to the back of my neck where the hairs stood up on end. "You're a great photographer. I love your work, especially the black and white stuff. I'm Rick."

"Don't worry, I know who you are," I laughed. "No introduction required. And thanks for the compliment."

He released my hand and stood back, hands on hips. "You're welcome."

"How did you know which perfume I was wearing?"

He narrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward, talking quietly. "I'm very interested in cosmetics. You might not know this to look at me, but don't be deceived. If the music thing goes to shit, I can always get a job on one of the counters in Macy's."

I started giggling. "Or Harrods. You're in London now, you know."

He held up his hands. "Excuse me. Forgot about that. As long as the pay is decent, I'll be there."

Everybody I'd spoken to had been right. Rick Borrell, international megastar and lead singer of Beautiful Losers, was every inch the charmer I had been led to believe. He was also absolutely gorgeous – better looking in the flesh than in his photographs, not that I thought that would have been possible. He was on perfect form today, his dark hair slightly ruffled and with a little stubble enhancing that already handsome face. I was going to have to be careful, maintain a modicum of professionalism. But it wasn't going to be easy. As he positioned himself against the white photographic backdrop and flashed another sexy smile my way, I knew I was putty in his hands.

Keep it together, Amy
, I thought.
He wouldn't be interested in you anyway.

"So who's interviewing me? I hope it's you."

I looked through my viewfinder and focused before firing off a test shot. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "Think I'll go easy on you?"

"No, not at all. Like I said, I love your photos. You took some recently of The Vaccines, right?"

I nodded. "Yup."

"They were cool. Very raw. They looked like they were taken by someone who actually gives a shit about music."

"I do," I replied, moving closer. "It's my life. It's everything."

His beautiful blue eyes sparkled and widened as I spoke. He paused, then a warm smile washed over his face. "I thought so. So, are you doing the interview or not? Because if it's not you, I'm going to demand that it is."

"Oh dear. You're not going to throw a rock star tantrum, are you?" I teased.

"Absolutely. I'll stomp my foot and everything. And if my demands aren't met, I'm going to pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, march us to my hotel and make you watch as I trash the room, like all good rock stars do."

I couldn't stop giggling now, my attempts at cool rebuttals and smart responses beginning to wane. I kept snapping away as he spoke, snatching intimate moments of him smiling and laughing. "Throw me over your shoulder, eh? I'm a little too big for that. I might give you a slipped disc. You wouldn't be able to stand or do anything for six months and you'd hate me forever."

"Well, now, just stop there for a moment."

I lowered my camera and looked at him, his expression changing to one of curiosity.

"Firstly, I don't want to be responsible for doing anything that could make me hate you forever. Not when our obvious love affair has only just begun."

I smiled nervously and pushed a loose strand of my long red hair behind my ear.

"Secondly, don't you make any of those
silly comments about yourself. If you don't know how gorgeous you are, then I'm going to have to be the one to tell you. Corny, I know, but I like a woman to look like one, not like a matchstick."

I was floored, but also slightly suspicious. Was he just being kind? "Thanks," I replied. "But you don't need to flatter me. You must have gorgeous women throwing themselves at you day in and day out."

He crossed his legs, put his hands in his pockets and looked straight at me.
God, those eyes were beautiful
. "I was reading a magazine on the plane over here – Esquire, I think it was. They had one of those polls they do every year, 'Sexiest Woman in the World' or something. You know who won?"

I shook my head.

"Christina Hendricks. You know, the actress with loads of cleavage and a figure that Hollywood likes to describe as 'curvy'? And I agree. In fact, the results weren't even close. She annihilated the rest of the competition. If it wasn't for her,
Mad Men
would have no sexiness in it whatsoever."

I started taking photographs again, partly because I needed more and partly so I could hide once again behind the lens, taking the focus off me. "That's kind, but I'm no Christina Hendricks."

"Whoa there," he said, walking forward and grabbing the front of my camera. He gently lowered it and spoke to me softly, the smell of that Hugo Boss aftershave now just inches from my nostrils, causing a million tiny butterflies to dance around my stomach. "What would make you think that? You have an amazing body, gorgeous red hair and you're absolutely beautiful. It's taken everything in my power not to plant a kiss on those full, soft red lips of yours."

I gasped slightly and felt a rush of warm
th between my legs. "So what's stopping you?" I grinned. My legs felt like jelly and it seemed like I could have collapsed at that very moment, falling at his feet like some adoring fan. But I was stronger than that, riddled with all the insecurities that all of us women have, but smarter than the average bear.

"Because," he smiled, almost breaking into a laugh, "that would be terribly unprofessional. Besides, we still have an interview to do and you've barely asked me a thing."

He took a few steps back and positioned himself in front of my camera once again. This time, I didn't raise it. "I've got all the photos I need. I think I just might have caught the real you under that swagger."

This time, he couldn't help but chuckle. "I guess you got me. Am I going to like what I see?"

"I think so," I smiled. "You look warm and approachable in my shots, but don't worry. I managed to capture that streak of arrogance you're famous for. I wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation."

He slowly walked towards me again. "Do you think I'm arrogant, Amy?"

"I don't know you. Unlike some journalists, I don't make assumptions about people that easily. What do you think?
Are
you arrogant?"

"I prefer confident. Or maybe ambitious. How about confidently ambitious?"

We couldn't stop smiling at each other. "Confidently ambitious. I like that. I can identify with it."

We made our way over to a leather sofa on the
far side of the studio. Rick slipped off his jacket to reveal a tight, dark grey top that hugged at his muscular frame. I felt that weakness in my legs again, that churning in my stomach that only comes from being devastatingly attracted to someone.
Keep it together, Amy. You still have an interview to do.

"Where
's your publicist?" I asked. "There's normally at least one person here to tell me what I can and can't ask."

He shook his head. "Not for me. I've never been one for big entourages. Or small ones for that matter. You can ask me anything, Amy. I'm an open book."

I set my recorder down on a low glass coffee table. "Okay, are Beautiful Losers splitting up?"

"Shit, you don't mess about. No, we are not. Why would you ask?"

"Well, the rumours have been flying for a while now and you're here to start the buzz about your solo project. Isn't that the first sign of tension in a band?"

He sighed. "Sometimes, you just have to do your own thing. Beautiful Losers has always been dear to me and always will
be. I'm the main songwriter, after all. But sometimes you need a break from sixty-thousand-seater stadiums. This album allows me to do something a little bit more intimate, stripped back. It's full of songs that simply wouldn't fit on one of the band's albums."

"Are you hoping people see a different side of you? The one who isn't stepping off private jets, attending fashion shows and hanging out with supermodels?"

He smiled and looked around, pretending there was someone else in the room. "Who, me? I am I that person? Yeah, I guess so. Plus, I'm older now. I turned thirty just over two months ago and you start to grow out of all of that shit."

I relaxed back into the sofa, crossing my legs. This didn't feel like an interview. It felt like a conversation – a confessional, almost. "What is it you've grown out of? Are there any things you've regretted?"

"No," Rick smiled, shaking his head and flicking dust off his black jeans. "Being in a band is like a microcosm of life. You get to travel the world, meet some incredible people, hang out in some amazing places. You get to go wild, absolutely ridiculously crazy at times, and live this exhausting dream. But the industry is full of assholes too, some real scumbags who you wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. The tricky bit is navigating between the good and the bad at such a young age and coming out of it unscathed. I've done more in ten years than most people will ever do in one. When you live at that pace, you have to slow down eventually. That's where I am now, with this album. I'm in a different frame of mind, both philosophically and intellectually."