Chapter 2 Coffee Snot
Silas
Coffee goes everywhere—literally everywhere: up my nose, out my mouth, onto the desk and the blotter, the back of my laptop. Hell, there’s coffee snot on Bailey.
All because she just said the word boudoir in my office.
I didn’t realize I could coffee-burn the inside of my nose, but you learn something new every day.
Bailey’s up immediately, pulling tissues out of the box on the side cabinet. I’m choking on coffee or spit or, I don’t know, the fact that Hunter’s hot sister just said boudoir in my office.
She hands me the tissues, and I cover my mouth. Her hand pats my back. “Should I whack harder? That’s just if someone’s actually choking to death, right?” Her eyebrows have drawn together, the V in them deep with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say, but it’s wheezy and anemic. I clear my throat, cough again, and repeat myself.
Bailey looks at me with worry, biting her lip, but I can tell she’s dead serious about this.
I put my head in my hands. Oh my god, this woman is going to kill me.
My water bottle is on my desk, so I reach for it. Bailey’s quiet while I gulp it down, clearing my throat a few more times and testing out my vocal cords.
“Why me?” I croak. There’s more to my question, like why not a photographer in New York or why not someone who specializes in these types of shoots, but I don’t think I can manage a sentence that long without losing my dignity.
Hell, I guess my dignity is already out the window with the coffee snot.
“I’m glad you asked,” Bailey says and pulls a tablet out of her bag. She’s all business now, like she’s presenting a work proposal. That’s Bailey—whenever she’s nervous or vulnerable, she gets sharp. Efficient. Puts walls up.
I’ve known her long enough to see through it.
With a few touches, she finds what she’s looking for and holds up a finger. “One. You are an excellent photographer. I’ve seen so much of your work, and you make everyone look beautiful.”
“My work? As in, like, headshots and engagement photos and children’s Easter pictures?” There’s not much money in artistic photography, so I do whatever pays the bills.
She glares at me, then glances down at her notes. There’s the Bailey I know. Prickly when she’s scared. I want to tell her she doesn’t need to be defensive with me, but that would only make her more defensive.
“Two. This isn’t just going to be boudoir photos.
This is a fuck-you to all the people when I was growing up who made fun of my weight.
I want to do this right under their noses.
Not that they’ll ever see the photos, but you know what I mean.
Three. I could find a photographer in New York, but they would be a stranger.
Four.” Bailey pauses and takes a deep breath.
A hitch in it that makes my senses sharpen, makes me sit up straighter.
“I trust you not to make fun of me nor tell anyone else about it.”
I can’t argue that one. I definitely don’t want Hunter to know about this. He might punch me in the face again. And I can see why Bailey doesn’t want people to know about it—people in this small town, even though it’s a wonderful place, would make it a thing.
It wasn’t always a wonderful place, and it still has a lot of room to grow.
I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat, staring at the ceiling. Bailey is quiet, waiting for me to absorb this.
“Why a boudoir session?”
I hear the click of the tablet case closing. When I roll my head over to look at her, Bailey’s eyes are focused somewhere else, holding herself carefully as if afraid she’ll break.
“I’ve worked really hard the past few years, in a lot of ways. Especially around how I feel about my body.”
When she glances at me, I nod. Bailey’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful. But even from a young age, she was a bigger girl, and that left her ripe for unwanted attention from bullies and society.
“Basically, I set a goal for myself and a reward. And that reward is this photo shoot. In Here. With you.”
“What do you have in mind?”
A flicker of excitement crosses her face, though I haven’t said yes yet. She turns her tablet toward me.
“I have an idea board.” The screen shows a woman standing at open balcony doors. She’s wearing a sheer robe, and every single curve is showcased by the moody lighting and filter.
I swallow hard, instantly imagining Bailey like that.
On the left is white space with some text:
-something sheer? A robe?
-nighttime shot? String lights?
-or dress shirt?
Bailey swipes, showing me more photos. They all have notes on the side, suggestions for what to wear. Lace bodysuit. Dramatic shadows?
Swipe. Thigh highs.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
Okay, moment of honesty? I was going to say yes from the second she asked. The coffee-snorting was just my brain short-circuiting. But thigh highs? THIGH HIGHS? Hunter is going to murder me and honestly, at this point, it might be worth it.
I take the tablet from her, turn the screen off, and—for good measure—set it facedown on my desk. I can’t think about anything other than Bailey in lace and stockings and . . .
“Did you make a PowerPoint presentation?” I accuse, trying to break the spiral.
“It’s called being prepared, Montgomery. Some of us like to have our shit together.” She folds her arms, and I recognize that same steely set of her jaw she gets when she feels like she’s being teased.
Of course she made a PowerPoint. This is Bailey we’re talking about. The woman probably has a spreadsheet tracking her spreadsheets. And yes, before you ask—it’s extremely hot. I’m not proud of how much the organizational skills are doing it for me right now.
“Of course you have your shit together,” I soothe. “Considering you made one to convince your parents to let you move to the city for a summer job at seventeen, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Where would you want to do it?”
“The Taylor house.”
“Ah. Pricey.” It’s the nicest home in Here, not far from the lodge, and has five bedrooms. I’ve been there a few times with Kit, whose parents own it.
They have a variety of rentals that were grandfathered in when the town limited short-term rentals a few years ago, essentially eliminating all Airbnbs owned by out-of-towners.
She holds my eye with a smirk. “I’m single.
I have a management job at a successful renewable energy start-up.
While I live in an expensive city, I have a small apartment, but no kids, no pets, no spouse.
And I work sixty-hour weeks and haven’t taken a vacation in fifteen months. Money is not a problem.”
She reaches over and flips the tablet back on. “There’s more I want to show you—”
She swipes, and this time I see the words black thong.
“Nope.” I snatch it out of her hands for good this time.
“I don’t think I’m the right person for this, Bailey.
It would be . . . it would be . . .” About twenty descriptors come to mind, and none of them fit right.
It would be sexy, but is that a good thing?
I’ve held off my crush on Bailey for years.
It would be weird because I’d have to keep a secret from Hunter, but I don’t want to say that and have her think her body is weird.
Anything I choose is fraught with hazards.
“Silas,” she says. “Look at me.”
I blink. I’ve been staring at the coffee-stained tissues on my desk.
Bailey’s eyes are big and bright. She’s holding the tablet like a shield.
When she speaks, she sets it down—nothing between us.
“I’m doing this for me. I’ve spent years listening to other people’s opinions about my body, and I’m done with that. This is about taking control back. I’m not a size two, and I never will be.”
My chest tightens. She’s sitting there, showing me a crack in her walls, asking me to help her see what I’ve always seen. And she has no idea—absolutely no idea—how beautiful she’s always been to me.
Or maybe she does know, and that’s exactly why she’s asking me. Because she thinks I’ll be kind.
Damn it. That’s a fucking good reason for me to do this. It’s going to kill me, but the idea of anyone else taking these pictures and not treating her tenderly is even worse.
In my silence, Bailey speaks again with more vulnerability and softness than I’ve ever heard from her. “I just . . . I want to see myself the way someone else might see me. Someone who doesn’t have all the baggage.”
I pick the tablet back up, letting the professional photographer part of my brain kick in.
The lighting is window-lit, late afternoon based on the warmth.
They’ve used a reflector to bounce light back and create that glow.
The Taylor house has those west-facing french doors in the master bedroom.
We could replicate this, maybe even improve it if we timed it for golden hour.
I mentally calculate: forty-five minutes before sunset, reflector, maybe a sheer curtain to diffuse . . .
Stop. Stop planning this. You haven’t even said yes yet.
I look back up at Bailey and she looks so hopeful.
One time when we were kids—maybe I was eight?
That would have put Bailey around eleven?
—Bailey refused to go to school. Nothing her parents or Hunter did worked, and she actually ended up staying home for a few days.
Her parents talked to a child psychologist, but before they could get her an appointment, one of the girls at school told the teacher Bailey was being bullied.
Fucking Ben Hartly had been running around calling her Big Willy.
When the school didn’t do anything about it, Hunter and I took care of it ourselves. I held Ben down while Hunter bloodied his nose. We both got suspended.
Worth every single second.
Bailey cried when she found out—not because Ben got hurt, but because we’d stood up for her. Like she couldn’t believe someone would.
That’s the look she’s giving me now.
It was easy to defend Bailey against Ben. This time, I can’t defend Bailey against herself. She has to do it on her own, and if I can give her the tools to do it, then I will.
Even if it’s self-torture.
I meet her eyes. “I’ll do it.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. When were you thinking?”
“February 14.”
“Valentine’s Day?” I raise an eyebrow.
She shrugs. “A gift to myself, since I’m single. I’ve already booked the Taylor house for the weekend.” She pulls her tablet back, protective now. “It should be plenty of time to plan.”
“Absolutely.” Sure, a little less than three months is plenty of time to plan a boudoir session. But it’s definitely not enough time to come to terms with the idea of seeing Bailey like that and remaining completely professional.
I’m so fucked.