Chapter 5
Silas
Saturday. The day. It’s here.
The door to my bathroom cracks open. “Montgomery?” Bailey calls out. “You ready?”
I pause, hunched over the softbox that’s casting an even, diffused light over my bed. Am I ready?
Bailey stayed the night at a motel about an hour away—didn’t want her family to know she’s here. Smart, considering Hunter would lose his mind.
She arrived this morning, and we’ve spent the past few hours setting up.
Props arranged, furniture moved, my bedroom transformed into a studio.
Echo’s locked in my office, protesting loudly.
My camera gear is everywhere—tripods, lenses, all my equipment turning my personal space into something professional.
Through the windows, clouds diffuse the afternoon sun perfectly. We have a few hours before golden hour for the outdoor shots Bailey wants.
Everything’s ready. Except maybe me.
Bet you’re not surprised.
I straighten up, pushing my glasses to my forehead, then scrub my hands over my face. I can do this. I can totally do this.
“Ready,” I call back. I move behind my camera and play with the settings, giving myself something—anything—to do other than gawk at her.
The bathroom door opens, and I focus even harder. This is just like any other shoot you’ve done. Just like the headshots for the principal or the Easter pictures of the O’Malley kids. Remember the real bunny? Cute. Happy kids. This is just like that.
“Okay,” I say and glance over at Bailey.
I do a double take, and a laugh bursts out of me.
Bailey’s jaw drops, a flush surging over her cheeks. “What are you laughing at?”
I try to stop myself, but I can’t. It’s just too funny.
She crosses her arms over her chest protectively. “Silas,” she whines and smacks my upper arm. “Whaattttt?”
“The robe,” I say. When I looked over, I was expecting Bailey to be in one of the lingerie outfits, but instead, she’s wearing my bathrobe.
A pink flannel bathrobe with bananas all over it.
“Shut up,” she says, and her face morphs from defensiveness to embarrassment. “It’s your bathrobe. I forgot mine.”
“I was expecting you in lingerie, not the bathrobe your brother gave me eight years ago,” I tease. “Why do you make it look so hot?”
But the comment works, pulling out the real Bailey, the one who deflects with mock offense when she’s actually embarrassed. I’d rather have her swatting at me than seeing that flash of hurt in her eyes.
Bailey’s hair is a luxurious chestnut, with highlights that make it shine. Her makeup is heavier than she normally applies, but the deep red of her lips makes me think of pinups, and the smoky makeup brings out the pop of gold flecks in her eyes.
But the point is we’re both laughing, and I’m more at ease than I was a few minutes ago. That’s good. We both need to be relaxed for Bailey to look natural in front of the camera.
“Okay,” I say, trying to get us back on track. I look down at my Nikon and fiddle with it, feeling the need to do something with my hands again. “I think we’re ready, so why don’t we start—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the robe drop, and like a magnet, I can’t control my own eyes.
They snap over to Bailey. She’s standing stock-still, like she’s trying very hard not to cover herself.
I get a glimpse—skin and red and black lace and curves and Jesus Christ—before I force my eyes back to my camera.
“—on the bed.”
I must have the best poker face in the world because Bailey doesn’t comment on anything. My heart launches from my chest with every beat like a cartoon animal.
Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
I avert my eyes while Bailey crawls—dear god, she crawls—onto the bed and settles herself against the white headboard.
Looking through my lens, I school myself to see Bailey as something else. She’s not my best friend’s sister, she’s not my first crush. She’s light and shadow. Composition. The way the dark lace contrasts against white sheets. The curve of her shoulder catching the diffused glow from the softbox.
She’s a client. A subject. Art.
Even if it feels like she’s looking right at me, she’s really looking at my camera.
I give Bailey guidance while I snap away. Bend the right knee—no, the other knee. Part your lips slightly. Take a deep breath.
At least my brain is able to compartmentalize Bailey. As far as my dick is concerned, I could be directing my own porn. That appendage has sailed past unprofessional, though I’m doing my best not to let Bailey see the evidence of how she affects me.
After a few dozen clicks, tension creeps in—tightness around her eyes, a stiffness to her posture.
And then she frowns, a wrinkle of concern between her eyebrows as she looks at the camera.
“You’ll tell me if something doesn’t look right, won’t you?”
“Of course—”
“And don’t just say I look great to make me feel better. I can handle honesty, Silas.”
I lower my camera, giving her a look. “Bailey. You look great. I’m not going to lie to you, so stop looking for problems that aren’t there.”
She rolls her eyes, but her shoulders also drop down a few inches.
There she is. The real Bailey under all that armor.
“What’s your favorite part of your body?” I ask, hoping to distract her.
She looks up, thinking, and then her eyes dart back to the lens. “My arms. Sometimes I look down and think, ‘those aren’t my arms.’ They have muscle definition now, and I feel like that’s where I saw the most progress when I started going to the gym.”
She relaxes again, focusing on something other than me.
We change poses to lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows.
My mouth goes dry when I get a view directly down her cleavage.
Behind her, her feet are kicked up and out of focus, the back seam of her thigh highs barely visible but still taunting me. “What about you?” she asks.
“Your ass,” I say without thinking. It’s only when Bailey’s mouth falls open, her eyes widening, that I realize what I’ve said.
“That’s—” She’s laughing, but she also chucks a pillow at me, because Bailey can never just accept a compliment—even an accidental one—without fighting back first. It thankfully misses my gear and hits the wall, landing with a soft thump on the floor. “I didn’t mean me. I meant you!”
My cheeks ignite, and my brain, which has already been overloaded with focus and arousal, now adds embarrassment to the mix. But I stay behind the camera—hiding, but also, Bailey’s laughter is so open and unguarded it’s transforming her whole face and lighting her up from the inside.
I snap a few pictures, close-ups of her face that I can already tell are going to be my favorites.
Especially when she calms down and looks right at me, giving me a warm smile that makes me feel . . . Well, I feel like she thinks I’m funny and charming and more. Just . . . more.
No, these are my favorite shots.
Bailey grabs another pillow from the headboard and clutches it under her chin, her eyes meeting mine. “So? What’s your answer?”
I lower the camera and give her a look. “I’m pretty sure all guys are very thankful for one particular body part.”
Bailey rolls her eyes. “Okay, now really, Silas.”
“All right. Well.” I draw my lips to the side, contemplating. “I do like my arms, too.”
With a bounce, Bailey rises up on her knees at the edge of the bed. “Show me.”
I set the camera down on the dresser and begin to unbutton my shirt. It’s long sleeve, collared, and black because that’s what I’m used to wearing in the studio.
“What are you doing?” Bailey asks warily.
“No sleeve should interrupt the full effect of my arms.”
“Oh my god,” she moans, exasperated, rolling her head back on her neck, and I get a flash of her saying that again, but breathier and slower.
I shake it off and peel the shirt from my shoulders. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I tell her, stepping up to the edge of the bed in front of her.
I flex my bicep. This one has willow branches tattooed in a half sleeve, parting around the face of an owl on my shoulder.
“Jesus, are you smuggling a baseball under there?” Bailey wraps her palm around the muscle and her eyes widen.
Her hand is warm. Her fingers don’t quite meet around my bicep. And the way she’s looking at me—not like Hunter’s best friend, not like the guy who beat up her bully—makes my breath catch.
I laugh and pull away. “This is supposed to be about you.”
She shrugs. “It’s only fair since I’m half naked too.”
There’s a beat of silence where both our eyes drop down. I know that what Bailey’s wearing isn’t that different from seeing her at the lake or in my parents’ pool, but the context, the lacy red and black, makes it feel like so much more.
The air between us shifts. Charges.
When my eyes meet hers again, there’s a flush in her cheeks, a wide-eyed look about her—and then she puts those thoughts away.
“Show me,” I say, before she can settle back onto the bed. “Show me your biceps,” I clarify.
She laughs again and flexes for me. It feels like a Herculean effort to raise the camera back to my face, but I do, and the shot is her bright-eyed and proud. Then we get back to the planned ones.
Through the lens, I catch the way afternoon light gilds the edge of her shoulder, turning skin to bronze. The composition—her proud smile, those flexed arms, the unselfconscious joy—is exactly what she needed to see.
This is why I said yes. To give her this.
I keep my shirt off, though. Putting it back on would uneven the playing field again, and I like it where it is.
We work through the list of shots that she wants, the various poses, some outfit changes. Every time Bailey comes back, she’s not only changed her clothes, she’s also refreshed her makeup, especially the bright red lipstick.
The whole time, invasive thoughts pop into my head, begging me to suggest to Bailey that we take these photos a step further. What if she touched herself? What if she was topless? What if I put the camera down and—
No.
Twice I tell her to turn away from me, to look somewhere else, under the guise of snapping a photo so that I can wrestle to get my erection under control.
Professional. I’m supposed to be professional.
When she comes out with the next outfit and walks past me, I notice something, something I have to look at directly to verify.
I clear my throat. “Um, there’s a loose thread on your . . . uh, panties.”
“There is?” Bailey twists around, trying to look at her butt cheek. This pair is lacy, hugging her ass and delicately swooping between her legs. The outfit is powder-blue—innocent, almost. “I can’t see it.”
“Hang on,” I say. “I’ve got a pair of scissors here.” I rummage through my bag until I find what I’m looking for and gesture to her. “May I?”
Bailey’s eyes widen. “Yeah.”
I kneel behind her. From this angle, the loose thread is at eye level. So is her ass.
Part of me says I should hand her the scissors, tell her to go to the bathroom and take care of it herself. Another part says I can always edit the thread out in post-processing.
A third voice is Hunter. Don’t you ever hurt my sister.
I place my palm on her thigh to steady myself. Her skin is soft and warm under my hand.
Bailey’s breath hitches. Or maybe that’s mine.
I lean in with the scissors.