8. Serena
Serena
When I hold the fancy key card to the hotel room door, even the sound the lock emits before opening is luxurious.
A cool draft of air rushes out toward me as I walk in.
It smells like freshness and roses, and I do my best not to swoon.
It’s possible that I got up extra early to sneak out this morning before any of my roommates saw me.
And it’s possible that Sid ran into me in the hallway, sleepy and in his boxers, making a zipped-lips motion at me when he realized where I was obviously going in a nice outfit, with my makeup done.
Last night, I could hardly sleep. At two in the morning, I was in bed staring up at the ceiling, heart pounding as I thought about Travis Oakley.
What better way to get back at that fuckwad than to sleep with his brother?
Was I actually contemplating sleeping with the man? My boss, a decade older than me?
No. Not at all. I wasn’t considering it when I got out of bed and showered, not when I dried my hair, not when I sat and did my makeup more meticulously than I ever would for a shoot. I’m behind the camera, not in front of it. What would I need to look good for?
I didn’t think about the slide of his dinner jacket over his strong shoulders, didn’t think about how it would feel to push my fingers through his hair. Didn’t think about his hands splaying over my sides, gripping my body as he lifted me into bed.
Now, my head flooded with those thoughts, I come to stand in the middle of the hotel room and realize something I’d never considered a possibility.
The room is empty.
Well—it’s well-furnished, of course—but I’m the only person inside.
There is a dress hanging from the closet door, the silky fabric reflected back in the mirror on the door.
Letting go of my duffel bag, I cross the room and pinch the fabric between my fingers—silky, luxurious.
The kind of thing one might wear to the launch of a high-end hotel brand.
There’s a small, folded card attached to the garment, and I pick it up, reading.
S, I know this is not your style, but would prefer for you to blend in. Please wear it for me. Thanks. T.
For a long moment, I stand still in the rose-scented room, staring down at the note. I try to picture him writing it. Is this normal? An employer having a dress code is one thing, but luring me to a hotel room just to leave me a dress for the shoot?
Please wear it for me.
I shouldn’t be disappointed. I should be grateful that Travis isn’t actually interested in me. That this is just about me looking right for the brand. It’s no secret that appearances are important for Onyx.
This was reckless. Last night, the version of myself that argued against the idea was the one with her head on her shoulders, and it would be good for me to let her be in charge today.
Still, even though I know I should be logical about this, that I should ignore my worst impulses, I step forward and bury my nose in the dress, wondering if there might be a hint of Travis’s cologne left behind.
Travis arrives at the launch party at exactly a quarter past seven.
His suit is impeccable, and I’m sure it cost a pretty penny.
He tugs casually on the cuffs when he walks in, flashing a bright white smile at the first person to greet him. I have never seen him smile like that at the office before. It’s performative, obviously, but I’m still struck by the longing to be on the other end of that smile.
I catch the moment, that first clasping of hands, a brisk, business-like conversation. My heart grows heavier, more insistent with each second Travis appears on my camera screen.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Last night should have been a wake-up call about this little infatuation. Instead, my friends knowing about it just makes me want him more.
My feet ache in my heels, my dress feels tight, and my only solace has been the camera in my hands. For hours, I’ve dutifully captured every part of the event, from the set-up and the catering to the first guests arriving in their expensive vehicles outside.
I’ve never worked an event like this before. They’re treating this thing more like a wedding than a party—like it’s important for me to catch all the moments, before and after. The event planner has been nothing but kind, but this is a very long gig.
Then again, there is a reason Travis is paying me so much.
Travis moves deeper into the crowd, and I turn away for a moment to give my body a chance to recover.
Seeing him is like walking up the stairs when you haven’t exercised in a while—I know I shouldn’t be breathing hard, and I’m embarrassed by it, but there’s nothing I can do to change the way my body is reacting to the situation.
I focus in on a new shot—an older couple flirting by the tall, sparkling water fountain in the center of the room. The chandelier twinkles above them, and the vaulted ceilings in the background provide good separation, framing them between two golden arches.
Even though I manage to keep busy, taking photos of Travis from across the room and giving myself little breaks by photographing other guests in between, I feel his constant presence like a hand resting on my shoulder.
The next time I turn around to find him, camera searching through the crowd, I see him by the tower of champagne glasses.
He stands completely still, a pale drink in his hand, staring right at me.
My entire body stills, chills racing up and down my legs at the feeling of that gaze. Even from this distance, I make out the way it rakes slowly up, then down, my figure, hesitating just for a moment on the hem of my dress.
You know, I can hear Georgia saying. Kind of creepy behavior.
Does it still count as creepy if I’m into it? Yeah, maybe a different freelancer might not be into the whole dress in the hotel room thing, but I liked it. I can’t lie to myself and say that I wasn’t excited. That I wasn’t hoping he would be on the other side of the door. Waiting for me in the bed.
His taking pleasure at the sight of me in this dress should be an HR disaster.
Except I didn’t have to wear the dress. I didn’t have to accept this job, didn’t have to come to this event. And I didn’t have to arrive so eagerly at the hotel room, pulsing with the hope that he might be there. Waiting for me.
Now, I blink away that image—of him reclining in that massive hotel bed, one arm up over his head nonchalantly, staring up at me—and try to focus on my work.
I’m here to take pictures, not to fantasize about Travis’s hands on my waist. Not to imagine the photos I could take of his body, all gorgeous muscle and tight angles.
An hour later, the night moving along steadily, Travis makes a speech, and he doesn’t look at me once while he gives it. I look at him plenty—positioning myself to put him in the best light, focusing in on the way it glances over his cheeks, making his brown eyes appear even darker.
Studying him through the camera isn’t doing me any favors, but he’s beautiful. I can’t make myself look away.
When the speech is over, the room raises their glasses, and Travis turns, looking right at me. It jolts through me, and I forget to take a picture. The crowd cheers and drinks between us, but our eyes stay locked.
Jesus. I rip my gaze away and focus on what I’m here to do.
For the next hour, I slip in and out of crowds, taking as many pictures as I can. Still, even being this focused, I feel Travis’s attention on me, and I can’t stop myself from glancing back up at him, the thrill of possibility sparking each time we connect.
The nice thing about roaming the room with a camera in hand is that I’m afforded the same invisibility as the staff when it comes to the general party attendees.
I can blend into the background, watch them without being watched in return.
Of course, there are plenty of people who hastily turn away from the camera.
People who believe they never look good in pictures.
But they don’t really see me—they see the camera, the promise of an image on social media that they’re either going to love or curse.
And, apparently, I’m so invisible that a man nearly knocks me completely over.
“Oh shit—shit, sorry.” There are large, warm hands on my arms, pulling me up, getting me back on my feet. I grip my camera like it’s a baby, the thought of dropping it heart-wrenching.
“Jesus,” I breathe when I realize everything’s okay, and my death grip on my Canon worked. Then, I look up into the face of the man who nearly just cost me my livelihood. “Why don’t you…”
But my voice fails me. How fucking embarrassing.
“…watch where I’m going?” he finishes for me in a joking tone. He quirks an eyebrow, his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin that instantly pulls at my heart.
He has a head of wild, sandy blonde curls that stand up from his head like he’s been running his hands through them. Now, smiling like he is, deep dimples pop on his cheeks, laugh lines teasing me.
This man is gorgeous in a way that goes deeper than facial features. He does have shining blue eyes, a playful set to his face. But there’s something more.
In college, I had friends who painted, and we’d have discussions about the differences between capturing a moment and recreating it. How difficult it can be to truly accomplish the vibrancy of a human spirit in a portrait.
But the thing is that it’s hard to do with photography, too. It’s like each person’s face is a pond, and if it’s too still, the picture is just going to feel like a reflection of them. You need to ripple that pond, get the surface of the water moving just enough that you can see what’s underneath.
The man in front of me isn’t even trying to conceal what’s beneath the surface. He’s a shallow stream on a pleasant day. Cool, clear water over shining, colorful river rocks. Tiny minnows poking and prodding, dashing scales reflecting the sun.
Simple. Transparent. Beautiful.
Somehow, nothing like Travis.
“Oh,” he says, blinking just after I’ve brought my camera up and taken a photo of him. His smile widens as I check the product. “Wow, okay—should I be flattered?”
And, finally, I have the good sense to be embarrassed. “Shit, sorry. I’m, uh, I’m a photographer?—”
“—that much is clear,” he laughs.
“—so I’m supposed to capture the energy, the people here tonight and you were, uh?—”
I don’t usually stumble over words like this.
Grasping at the curtains of my tough facade, I desperately draw them back over the bumbling mess I’ve just become. How is it that I was able to stand toe-to-toe with Travis Oakley himself, and yet this man is making me a muttering mess?
“Nice to meet you.” His voice is warm, low, meant for only me. He doesn’t offer me his hand, but leans his body toward mine like a physical indication of interest. “I’m Ryan Hudson.”
I hesitate for only a moment. “Serena MacKenzie. Sorry for, uh, shoving my lens in your face.”
His smile grows, “Can I see it?”
“Oh.” I’m already shaking my head before he’s halfway through the question. “Oh, no. No, I’ll have to edit the photos and give them to?—”
I cut myself off, instantly feeling the attention of the man I’ll be giving these photos to tonight. Glancing over Ryan’s shoulder, I find Travis in conversation with an older woman, his gaze flitting to mine, unreadable as always.
Unreadable, but intense.
“Hey, uh, Ryan,” I let my gaze slide back to Ryan, that familiar urge to be reckless popping up again. His grin gets even wider when I say, “Would you mind if I used you?”
“I would like nothing more. What for?”
“Just to… gauge someone’s interest?”
“Ah.” If he’s disappointed to hear this, it doesn’t show. In fact, if anything, he looks thrilled to be included. “Another photographer?”
I glance again at Travis. “Not quite. I’ve had the sense that this person might be interested, but he hasn’t really… made a move.”
Ryan leans in, tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. I blink at him, momentarily stunned, and he whispers, “Well, let’s force his hand, shall we?”
“You’re good at this.”
“I’m good at a lot of things. Hopefully you’ll be tempted by how useful I am and give me your number.”
“Even when I’m gauging the interest of someone else?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Especially then.”
This time, when I glance up from Ryan, I realize how close I am to him. I can practically feel his heat through the light-blue dress shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. And then I register the moving shadow in my peripheral. It’s Travis from across the room, making his way to me.
“Ah, so he’s interested, huh?” Ryan asks, and I feel my cheeks heat.
“Looks like it,” I choke out. Ryan may have messed with my speech, but watching Travis make his way in my direction is messing with my autonomic functions. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he grins and takes a sip of champagne, and without thinking about the job I came here to do, I turn and hurry out of the ballroom.