That evening Rachel bounded back into Landon's apartment, glowing with excitement to celebrate his successful audition.
Yet she quickly sensed that tonight Landon was driven by an even fiercer hunger than usual; though she relished every second and longed to stretch the pleasure further, her body simply couldn't keep up, and—inevitably—she drifted into exhausted sleep.
Left alone with his restless energy, Landon could only swallow his frustration; he rolled to his side, drew Rachel gently into his arms, and finally slipped into slumber.
At dawn his internal clock woke him on schedule. Glancing down at his still-vibrant state, he sighed in resignation, calmed himself as best he could, and got up to start his morning workout.
When Rachel emerged from the bathroom, radiant, toweling her damp hair, she met Landon's plaintive stare. As if confessing a crime, she hurried over and soothed him with soft, apologetic kisses.
Rachel felt utterly helpless—she wanted more, but Landon was simply too much for her.
What she didn't know, unfairly, was that Landon's extraordinary fervor the night before had fused his spark for Tracy with the fire he felt for her; it wasn't one plus one, but at least triple the intensity.
After a cozy breakfast, Rachel skipped off to work in high spirits.
She had barely left when Zoe—Landon's Makeup Artist and now temporary assistant—arrived at the apartment, right on time.
From today on, Zoe would accompany him to jobs as his assistant while still wielding her brushes.
Their destination: the Marie Claire inside-pages shoot.
Last week, when Tracy first mentioned the Marie Claire session, Landon hadn't caught the name; only when she repeated it yesterday did he realize it was Marie Claire.
Once again he wondered about Tracy's clout—an ordinary WMA Agent couldn't swing this.
Marie Claire is only a second-tier North-American fashion book, marketed as "the fashion magazine for smart women," yet George Clooney graced its U.S. cover back in 1997.
For Tracy to secure an inside spread for a complete newcomer like Landon was no ordinary Agent power play.
Riding shotgun in Landon's ford explorer, Zoe bubbled with excitement, her dreadlocks dancing as she bounced in her seat.
"Boss, trust me—today I'll make you so gorgeous the whole studio won't be able to look away!"
She rubbed her hands together, itching to paint at last on the "perfect canvas" she'd coveted for weeks, more pumped than Landon himself.
Landon chuckled, eyes on the road. "Keep it natural, Zoe. Nothing too wild."
"Leave it to me!" she said, brimming with confidence.
At the studio the crew was already tweaking lights and gear.
The photographer, Henry, was a bearded, artsy forty-something whose every gesture dripped camp; spotting Landon, he adjusted his glasses with a dainty flick, looked him up and down, and said flatly, "Oh, you're here. Go get ready."
Zoe snapped into pro mode, pulling Landon to the makeup chair and flipping open her treasure-chest of a kit.
Landon closed his eyes and surrendered his face to her spells.
Soft brushes and sponges glided over his skin while Zoe hummed an off-key tune, quick and deft.
"Done, boss—take a look!" she sang, barely containing her glee.
Landon opened his eyes and blinked at the mirror.
His features were now carved and luminous, skin flawless.
Best of all, the subtle eyeliner and shadow made his sapphire eyes bottomless.
The look amplified every advantage of his face, lifting him from merely stunning to stratospheric.
"Well?" Zoe asked, batting her lashes.
"Incredible, Zoe. You're a genius."
When he stepped onto the set the room went still; every crew member, male or female, stared openly, transfixed.
Henry clasped a hand to his mouth, eyes bulging, and rushed forward. "Oh my God, darling—you're a sculpture by the Almighty himself!"
"What's your name again? Zoe? You're magical!"
Zoe lifted her chin in triumph.
Shooting began at once.
For all his flamboyance, Henry knew his craft.
Landon shifted through poses and moods on cue.
Lounging on a vintage sofa, eyes half-mocking;
in a crisp white shirt at the window, sunlight gilding an easy grin;
in a tight tank, hem lifted just enough to reveal sculpted abs—when that smoldering shot froze on the monitor, Henry stamped his foot in ecstasy while the crew gasped.
Henry spun for angles, firing the shutter like a machine gun, crooning:
"Fabulous, baby—just like that!"
"Give me those soulful eyes—yes, deeper!"
"That profile—heartbreakingly perfect!"
"Stay there—so sexy I could die!"
He seemed to forget film costs; in the face of Landon's beauty, every frame felt essential.
What should have been a two-hour session stretched to nearly four.
Finally Henry lowered his camera, dabbed imaginary sweat, and declared:
"Honestly, darling, burying you inside pages is a crime—I'll lobby for the cover; fashion will thank me!"
Waving grandly he added, "Mark my words, these shots will set the world alight."
Landon smiled politely. He knew looks might open doors, but only work and talent would keep them open.
A Beautiful Mind was the real beginning.