Chapter 4
Silas
The problem with agreeing to photograph Bailey in lingerie is that now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Like right now. She’s eating focaccia and laughing with Hunter, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m mentally cataloging the way light hits her face. Photographer brain, I tell myself. Purely professional.
I’m such a liar.
I let the two of them play darts while I escape to the bar. Hunter’s the best player in town, but Bailey’s close, and I leave them to their sibling rivalry and join Kit and Morgan at the bar.
It’s getting late, and the crowd that was here for dinner has mostly eaten and left. Morgan’s deep cleaning one of the ice bins, his head disappearing inside it while he dries it with a chamois.
When he pops back up and catches sight of me, he grins. “Oh good. You can help me convince Kit that we should raise prices for Buffed & Polished.”
Next to me, Kit rolls his eyes. “We don’t even know how this season is going to go yet.”
Buffed & Polished is Kit’s genius side hustle where the four of us clean houses shirtless to music. Pure domestic porn. We’re popular with bachelor parties, bachelorettes, and Mrs. Donner, who requests the cowboy package monthly for her eighty-nine-year-old mother.
I know. You wish you had one near you, don’t you?
We’ve got plenty of bookings this busy season, thanks to word of mouth and a successful first winter last year. Business was much slower in spring and summer when tourists stop coming in swarms.
“Isn’t that a good thing? We’re gonna be so busy soon.”
“Yeah, but we only had three bookings last month, aside from Mrs. Donner.”
“You can do seasonal pricing,” I point out. My other businesses are different—I sell more houses in early summer, then do senior portraits and engagement shoots in summer and fall.
I don’t do weddings. Here doesn’t have any great venues.
And no one’s ever asked me to do boudoir sessions.
Until now.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I take my shirt off for money once a month and nobody bats an eye. But Bailey asking me to photograph her in lingerie? That’s the thing that’s got me twisted up inside.
Maybe because when I’m doing Buffed & Polished, it doesn’t mean anything. But this? With Bailey? This means everything.
I glance back at Hunter and Bailey. A quick scan of the scoreboard tells me that Hunter’s closed out everything but sixteens, and she’s behind by—I do some quick math—thirty-two points. She needs triple sixteens to win.
My eyes fall to her ass as she steps up to the line and prepares to throw. Bailey’s wearing tight jeans, the kind that accentuates the curve of her hips and leaves little to the imagination. But imagine I do.
I imagine lacy thongs and sheer robes. Soft light from my bedroom window catching on bare skin. The way her curves would look through my camera lens—all shadows and highlights and absolute perfection.
She throws. A triple sixteen. Of course.
Fingers snap in front of my face. “Dude,” Morgan says, laughing. He leans over the bar looking into the back room. “What are you staring at? It’s just Hunter and Bailey back there, right?”
Just Bailey. My friends can’t even fathom staring at her. To them, she’s Hunter’s little sister, someone to protect and tease in equal measure.
But I’ve never been able to see her that way. She was smart and funny and so goddamn beautiful it hurt to look at her sometimes.
I’ve gotten good at hiding it. At being the reliable best friend who gives good hugs and doesn’t cross lines.
In three months, every single one of those lines is getting obliterated.
Morgan’s still waiting for an answer. I force myself to focus.
Kit laughs. “Sorry my business meetings bore you.”
I return my attention to my friends and roll my eyes. “Your business meetings are a joke.”
“Yeah, ’cause I’m the boss and I don’t have to answer to either of you schmucks. You aren’t invited to my real business meetings.”
“Hey, what you do in the basement of your parents’ house is none of our concern,” Morgan says.
“You’re the sucker who pays rent.”
I tune the two of them out again as they bicker. They don’t stare at Bailey, totally immune to the fact that she’s smoking hot. The four of us have always been protective of her, following Hunter’s lead, but I’ve heard from Morgan and Kit plenty of times that Bailey’s like a sister to them.
Kit’s got sisters of his own, and Morgan’s got an older brother, but Bailey’s always been the closest to our group.
But I have definitely never thought of Bailey as a sister.
Time passes by in a blur of skiing and working for Kit, but as January deepens, Bailey and I plan more and more.
And it’s torture.
Not the photo shoot prep—that part I can handle. I’ve researched reflector setups, planned compositions, and even drove by the Taylor house at the right time of day to check the lighting.
No, the torture is the texting.
At first it was logistics—what time works best, should she bring her own props, does the bedroom face east or west for morning light?
Then she started sending me photos of potential outfits. Just the items laid out on her bed, nothing scandalous. A sheer robe. A silk camisole. Thigh-high stockings still in the package.
But my brain fills in the rest. Bailey wearing them. Bailey looking at me while wearing them.
I’m a professional, I remind myself every time my phone buzzes with a new photo. This is just wardrobe consultation.
Except when she texts, Too much? Or not enough? with a picture of a black lace bodysuit, I have to put my phone down and take a walk.
The texts that kill me most aren’t even about the photo shoot.
They’re the random ones. Bailey sends me a meme about cat psychology at 2 a.m. with the message: Your cat is judging you.
No how are you or hope you’re doing well.
Just the meme and an accusation. That’s so Bailey—affection disguised as snark.
And every time I talk to or see Hunter, I have to bite my tongue, which is a lot of tongue biting. We see each other most days, and even if I’ve been able to temporarily focus on something else, seeing him reminds me that I’m going to be photographing his sister mostly naked.
Twice Hunter catches me zoning out and I have to tell him I’m thinking about work. It’s not even a lie—I’ve been obsessively preparing for this shoot like it’s a paid gig for Vogue instead of a favor for a friend.
A friend who I can’t stop thinking about.
A friend who just sent me a text.
Bailey
So, we have a slight problem.
It’s Wednesday night—T-minus three days until the shoot—and I’m sitting in my house cuddling with Echo and watching something mindless on Netflix.
Bailey
I just talked to Mr Hutchinson and there was a leak at the Taylor house.
We’re supposed to do our photo shoot there this weekend, so that’s going to be a problem.
Bailey
Shit. You can’t use just one of the bedrooms?
No
I didn’t want to tell Kit’s dad what we’re doing, and he said that the water’s going to be off for the entire house.
So obviously I can’t stay there.
I’m looking for an alternative but, um . . .
You know, there just aren’t that many nice places in Here?
Do you know anyone who has one of those condos over by the mountain? I can pay, of course, but I’m not really finding much online.
Short-term rentals are hard to come by ever since the town required permitting for them.
There are a few houses that rent out, plus three registered bed-and-breakfasts and two hotels.
One is a bit out of town, a budget chain, and then the other is locally owned but, uh .
. . needs some updating, to put it mildly.
Bailey
I don’t know anyone off the top of my head but I’ll ask around.
The balcony is going to be a problem though.
God, I really wanted to have the snowy mountain backdrop, even though I’m going to freeze my ass off.
Needing a balcony might make it harder to find a place though.
Well, there is . . . I mean, I have . . .
I scratch Echo’s chin. My cat, a Russian blue with green eyes, blinks at me.
Her ears twitch slightly as if listening to my brain trying to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve me inviting Bailey to be half naked in my house.
We are supposed to be doing this photo shoot in three days.
I’ve blocked off my schedule and so has Bailey, and she told me that she wouldn’t be available for the next month because of work.
She’ll totally miss out on the mountain views if we don’t do it this weekend.
I groan and push the heels of my hands into my forehead. I can already picture it and this is so bad.
Bailey. In my bedroom. In lingerie. On my bed.
Hunter’s going to kill me. But first, I have to survive this without completely losing my mind.
Echo meows, judgmental.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter.
Bailey
What if we did it at my house?
The ellipses of Bailey’s typing appear and disappear several times. Finally, a text comes through.
Bailey
No offense, but if you live anything like Kit or my brother, that’s a hard pass.
I laugh, and Echo’s eyes go wide, her ears radaring even more.
Bailey
They aren’t that bad.
I mean
I wouldn’t suggest you do a photo shoot there, but they’re clean.
Look, it’s just not the vibe I’m going for.
That’s fair.
Want to see my place? We can video call.
Sure.
My phone rings immediately and I answer, sitting up so I look like a normal human being in the video. Echo yowls at being dislodged from my chest and the first thing Bailey says is, “Was that Echo?”
“Yup.” I point the phone at my cat, who’s settling back into a loaf on the warm spot on the couch. Bailey doesn’t know Echo very well, but she knows Echo’s sister, Raven—Hunter’s cat.
“Hey, sweetie,” Bailey croons. Echo’s ears twitch and she meows back. “God, she’s such a beautiful cat.”
“I know,” I say, unreasonable pride in my voice.
A few years ago, the cat distribution system dropped two kittens in my backyard.
One of them was yowling up a storm, and when I stepped outside, she walked right up to me, immediately twined herself around my ankles, and I fell completely in love with her.
She’s beautiful and sweet and lord knows where they came from. She’s smart too, and loves to talk back, hence the name. Raven’s quieter, and Hunter was going to help me find a home for her but he quickly failed at his job and became a fellow cat dad.
Bailey talks to my cat a bit more, Echo chatting up a storm in response. I can’t remember if the two of them have ever met, but I post pictures of Echo on Instagram enough that Bailey knows her.
Finally, Bailey says, “Okay, Montgomery, let’s see your place.”
I stand up and walk toward the back of the house. Fortunately, I’m a neat person, so there’s only a few items of clothing on my unmade bed that I quickly sweep into the closet and shut the door. I step back and angle the camera so Bailey can get a sense of the space.
“Very nice, Montgomery.”
My bedspread is dove gray. My sheets are white, and I’ve got some of my photographs framed above the bed, nature shots I took. But the big thing I wanted to show her . . .
I push the curtains back, my fingers grazing the cold glass door. It’s dark outside, so there’s not much to see right now, but Bailey still gasps. “Is that a balcony?”
“A porch,” I correct. “And I have a view of the mountain.” I squint into the darkness, my breath fogging slightly against the glass.
The mountain’s lit up for nighttime skiing but I don’t think it’ll come out well on the video call thanks to the reflections on the window.
“It’s to the left. Hard to see right now but I promise it’s there. ”
“This could work,” Bailey says, more excited now.
Her enthusiasm makes my chest warm. She’s excited. About using my space. About trusting me with this.
“You can use the bathroom.” I switch on the light to the en suite and show her the space.
Leo, another friend from growing up who is now a general contractor, and I renovated it when I bought the house three years ago, so it’s the most modern room.
Right now it’s cluttered from my daily routine.
“I’ll clean it up, of course. And even if you have to buy a few things to get the looks you had in mind”—I immediately think of my nightstand that I got off Facebook Marketplace and has a chunk missing out of the corner—“it’s probably cheaper than renting the Taylor house. ”
We talk a bit more about logistics, what Bailey needs to bring and what she wants me to move before she gets there. After we hang up, I stare at my bed for a long moment.
In three days, Bailey will be here. In that bed. And I’ll be standing right where I am now, camera in hand, trying to keep my thoughts professional while photographing someone I’ve had feelings for since I was a teenager. Back when it was an innocent crush that I could pretend would go away.
They never did.
I should start making a list. Move the nightstand—that chunk missing from the corner won’t photograph well. Clear off the dresser. Maybe get some of those clips Morgan uses at the bar to keep the curtains back at the right angle.
Echo jumps back onto the bed, settling into her favorite spot right in the middle.
“You’re going to have to share that weekend,” I tell her.
She yawns, unimpressed by my problems.
Three days. I have three days to prepare my house, my equipment, and somehow, my brain for this.
The house and equipment I can handle.
My brain? That’s going to be the problem.