Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FINLEY
I had the hardest time falling asleep last night.
I turned the light off at ten, like always, but I just couldn’t turn my brain off.
I finally picked up the romance novel Margaret gave me in hopes it would distract me from my thoughts.
It did. I conked out somewhere around the fourth chapter only to have world-class nightmares.
I dreamed that Thomas Culpepper showed up for his reshoot looking like a real pirate—full-on with a scraggly beard and a pegged leg. I told him he had to shave and put on a nice shirt, but he refused.
He wielded the hook that replaced his left hand as though he was intent on running me through. “Avast ye, matey! It’s time to walk the plank!”
I was more annoyed than afraid. I was not going to disappoint Constance again. “Put that away,” I yelled at him, while handing him a shirt.
Pirate Thomas was not interested in doing what he was told. Instead, he jumped on the furniture and demanded, “Where’s the treasure, lass? If you tell me, I won’t have to kill ye!”
The weird thing is that even though I knew this was a stupid dream, I couldn’t force myself to wake up. So, I sat down and waited for Thomas to expend all his pirate energy and get on board with the mission at hand. Which never happened.
Instead, an entire crew of buccaneers showed up in my studio, and they all demanded to have their pictures taken. It was the longest, most exhausting night of my life. When my alarm finally rang, it was all I could do to not roll over and go back to sleep.
Being that I have a full day before Thomas comes in, I drag myself out of bed and start what I’m sure will be an all-day task of caffeinating.
I get dressed in a pair of jeans and my second-fuzziest sweater—I don’t want to wear my softest because I don’t have any confidence today will go well and I don’t want to taint it with bad juju.
At the bakery, I order my daily latte with three shots of espresso instead of one. Then I get a chocolate croissant in hopes it will make my mood better.
My morning is spent taking class pictures for the Little Sunshine Preschool class.
The kids are full of energy and it’s like herding a bunch of baby bunnies hopped up on sugar.
While it was challenging, I wind up having so much fun that my bad mood disappears entirely.
The day also flies by, and six hours are gone before I know it.
I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that time does not flow for me like it does for others—I cite the whole nose drawing event from college. An hour can feel like a day, and twelve hours can feel like a minute. The whole “timeline” thing isn’t a concept my brain gets.
Once the kids and their parents leave, I hurry and eat the lunch I brought from home. When I’m finished, I crawl under a blanket on a bed I use for boudoir shots. I need a power nap if I’m going to get through Thomas’s reshoot.
Here’s the thing about me and naps: unlike my nighttime sleep, where ninety-five percent of the time I know I’m dreaming, naps always feel more like an alternate reality.
You know, like I’m still fully awake, just visiting the dimension next to ours.
That’s the only way I can make sense of what happens next.
In my dream, I open my eyes, and Thomas is standing over me.
He gazes at me with what I can only describe as longing.
“Finley,” he croons with a voice as silky as my favorite hair ties from childhood.
He’s once again in full pirate regalia, but this time he looks like a swashbuckler from one of Margaret’s novels.
“Thomas?” I ask sounding unsure. “Is it you?”
“Aye, lass.” He kneels at the side of the bed until our eyes are on the same level. “I’ve come to take you with me. Get up and pack so we don’t miss the tide.”
“Where are we going?” I’m both nervous and excited at the prospect of being whisked away by this devilishly handsome man.
“Wherever the water takes us,” he says cryptically. “But we’re being pursued so we have to go now.” He suddenly jumps to his feet. “Hurry!”
Sitting up, I ask, “But what about the picture we have to take for Constance?” Don’t you just love when enough reality slips into your dreams to confuse them?
“I don’t know who this Constance is.” His voice is rough like a bag of freshly cracked walnut shells. “If you don’t want to be hung alongside me, you’d best move.”
I stare at him, trying valiantly to make heads or tails out of what’s going on. I want to go with him, because you know, Pirate Thomas is a total babe. But then again, I know I have to take his picture, so Constance won’t tell everyone in Elk Lake what a bad photographer I am.
“I can’t go.” I choke out the words disappointedly.
“If you don’t, you’ll never see me again.” Pirate Thomas sounds devastated at the prospect.
“I can’t let Constance down another time.”
He pulls at my arm. “Finley … Finley …”
“No, Thomas!” I shout at him. “I can’t run away with you! I have a job to do.”
“Finley?” Something in his tone changes, but I don’t let him finish whatever he’s going to say.
Instead, I cover my eyes so he can’t tell I’m about to cry. “Life isn’t fair,” I say. “Our love cannot take priority over this job.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say bravely. “Our love cannot prevail. Not this time.” I wistfully add, “Maybe in the next book …”
I wipe away the lone tear that has escaped its confines and open my eyes to say goodbye to my pirate love. But guess what? When I do, Pirate Thomas is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Dr. Thomas Culpepper is standing over me, looking like he’s ready to call for reinforcements.
“Thomas?” I ask while trying to figure out how much of my dream he might have overheard.
“Finley?” he replies. “Are you okay?”
“Um, yes.” I sit up and fling my legs over the side of the bed, nearly kicking him in the knee in the process. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” He turns his head slightly and side-eyes me like he might still make a run for it. Shoot, I’m guessing he heard stuff.
“Ah, yes, well … I was taking a small nap. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“And you were dreaming about pirates?”
There is only one way out of what is sure to be the worst embarrassment I’ve ever suffered. Bald. Face. Lying. “I wasn’t dreaming about pirates.” I glance up and stare at him challengingly. “I was dreaming about … tornados …”
“Tornados?”
“Yes.” Avoiding his gaze, I stand up and straighten out my clothes. Then I run my fingers through my hair and ask, “Are you ready?”
He looks as confused as I was hoping to make him. Mission accomplished.
“I guess. Do you want to start with hair and makeup?”
Red hot embarrassment fills my entire body as I remember the last time I did his hair and makeup.
His silky soft follicles slipping through my fingers …
the sensation of baby oil on his rock-hard chest …
I start to feel woozy and have to remind myself to breathe.
I inhale slowly to the count of seven before assuring him, “We don’t have to do hair and makeup today. ”
“Don’t you want me to get into character?” he asks, once again referencing our last photo shoot.
Imagining him in his pirate regalia makes my heart rate pick up speed, which forces yet another ragged inhalation. This time, I exhale to a full count of seven. “I’m sure you’ll look fine,” I say. “It’s just a headshot.”
I can tell he wants to ask me what happened at our last meeting, but I can never talk about that horrible day again. Instead, I point at his shirt. “Are you wearing that?”
“I brought a couple different things if you want to see them.”
“No, that’s fine.” I point to a dull gray backdrop. “Go sit on that stool. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Thomas looks unsure but ultimately does as I’ve instructed.
Meanwhile, I hurry through the bathroom door and close it.
Turning on the faucet, I pick up a hand towel and run it under the cold water.
Then I dab it across my face to bring my temperature down.
It does nothing to calm me. If anything, the roughness of the cloth against my skin agitates me even more.
When I come out of the bathroom, Thomas asks, “How long do you think this will take?”
If I put my mind to it, I could be done in ten minutes, but I can’t rush him out that quickly. If he tells Constance, she’ll think she overpaid me for sure. “Maybe an hour,” I answer, making sure not to look him directly in the eye.
After flipping on the studio lights, I grab my camera before turning back to Thomas and asking, “Would you like me to play some music?” That ought to fill any awkward silences nicely.
I’m reaching for my phone when he says, “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Shoot.
“Well, then.” I lift the camera to my face. “Pretend you’re a doctor.”
“I am a doctor.” His smile is soft and sweet and it’s all I can do not to walk up to him and go ahead and run my fingers through his hair again.
The temptation to touch him persists so I count to five slowly until I can trust myself not to do it.
I snap a good thirty pictures of Thomas, and his smile never falters.
Which is perplexing given our previous session.
Those expressions ranged from looking like he had contracted food poisoning to suffering from severe intestinal distress.
“Take a break,” I tell him before walking over to my laptop station. I sit down on the stool in front of it and check out the photos. I turn around and tell Thomas, “They all look good. We can try it with your doctor coat on, if you’d like.”
He stands up and moves toward the hanging rack.
I pretend to be busy clicking around the computer while he puts on his coat.
Unfortunately, the pirate shots pop up on the screen as he approaches me.
He stops dead in his tracks when he notices what I’m looking at.
“Those were pretty awful, weren’t they?”
Crud, now I have to say something. But what? Opening my mouth, I try to come up with something semi-intelligible. Not surprisingly, that’s not what comes out …