Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THOMAS
I don’t know what to make of Finley. One minute she can barely stand being in the same room as me and the next, she’s acting like I hurt her feelings.
She appeared almost disappointed when I asked her to be my fake girlfriend.
Is it possible she wants to be my real girlfriend?
And if that’s the case, then why is she prickly all the time?
I suppose I won’t learn the answer until we get to know each other better.
For my last shot of the day, Finley has decided I should be a duke.
She walks to the costume rack and pulls out a pair of fitted trousers, riding boots, and yet another blousy white shirt.
Actually, this one is more frilly than blousy.
“Roll the sleeves up like it’s been an exhausting day,” she orders. “And leave the top four button undone.”
“What have I been doing all day that’s made me so tired?” I ask. I seriously have no idea what a duke does to wear himself out.
Finley shrugs her shoulders before tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She repeats this gesture often and it’s quite endearing. “I don’t know. Just pretend that lording it over people has done you in.”
I laugh out loud. “Lording it over people, huh?”
As Finley walks away, she says, “Margaret and Bob love the snooty duke theme. Margaret has loaned me several books in the genre but I haven’t read them yet.” She confides, “I don’t think bodice rippers are my jam.”
“They’re not mine, either,” I assure her. That comment makes her chuckle.
“I wouldn’t think so,” she says. “I think they’re geared more toward women.”
Instead of going into the bathroom, I stand behind the costume rack to change. I take off the ripped jeans and put on the duke’s pants. “If they’re geared toward women, why don’t you like them?” I want to know.
She’s quiet for a long beat before answering, “I feel like women are always second-class citizens in them. You know, they’re being betrothed by their fathers or ordered around by societal dictates. That stuff makes me uncomfortable.”
“I get that,” I tell her. “But I think it has more to do with the fantasy of it all. You know, being forced into something and then discovering it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“I don’t think real life is like Bridgerton,” she says.
“What is Bridgerton?” I lean over to put a boot on and nearly lose my balance.
“It’s a show on Netflix. The story comes from bodice ripper books that have been turned into a television show.”
“And you don’t like the show?”
“I haven’t watched it,” she says. “Allie says it’s good though. She says if I can catch up to the current season, we could watch it together. I just haven’t gotten around to starting it.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I suggest, “Maybe we could watch it together. That’s something friends would do, right?”
“I … um …”
Finley doesn’t finish her sentence, so I add, “And we’ve decided we’re friends, right?”
“Yes?” It’s more of a question than a statement of fact.
I hurry to put on my duke shirt before stepping out from behind the costume rack. Finley takes one look at me and inhales sharply.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did I put this on backwards or something?” I didn’t know if the laces on the pants went in the front or back.
Her silky blonde hair moves from side to side. “No. You look fine.”
“Again with the fine,” I tell her. “I thought I looked darn good.”
Finley turns around and leads the way to another set. The background looks like a gentleman’s library. There’s an oriental rug on the floor and on top of that is a chaise lounge. Gesturing toward the little sofa, she says, “Recline on that and let’s see how you look.”
Instead of moving I stare at her blankly. I’m not quite seeing her vision.
In response, she sits down on the chaise and shows me what she wants. “You need to exude sexy entitlement. You know,” she says, “Like it’s just so hard and rewarding being you.”
I snort under my breath. “You seem to have a good grasp on what this genre entails for someone who doesn’t read it or watch it.”
“I’ve seen all the renditions of the Jane Austen movies,” she says matter of factly. “My mom was a huge Masterpiece Theater fan. She practically forced me to watch them with her.”
“And?” I ask. “Did you enjoy them?”
“I did,” she says almost against her will. “I like strong heroines who stand up for themselves. I just don’t like all the obstacles in their paths.” After a beat, she confesses, “I want to jump into the TV and yell at all those stupid men on their behalf.”
“It’s a good thing you were born in this time then,” I tell her.
“It’s a good thing for stupid men,” she clarifies.
When she gets up, I sit down on the edge of the sofa with my legs spread wide open.
Putting my elbows on my knees, I focus all my attention on Finley.
Once I’m good and smoldering, I tell her, “All of the servants had the day off and I had to dress myself. Not only that, but I had to peel my own grapes.” With a wink, I add, “I’m beat. ”
Finley snorts. “I think maybe this might be the look that comes most naturally to you.”
“You’re teasing, right?” Sometimes, I can’t tell with her. She’s got such a great poker face, I briefly wonder if she plays cards.
Without answering my question, Finley turns and walks off set before lifting her camera to her face.
I do my best to channel my inner spoiled nobility. Finley gives me positive feedback, but it’s minimal. Nice. Good. You’ve got it. I finally break down and say, “I have to be doing better than I did during our first session.”
She glares at me. “Nothing will ever be worse than that.”
“And yet, you cheered me on then and told me how great I was doing. Why aren’t you doing that now that I’m killing it?”
“I’m worried that overly positive reinforcement may make you a worse model.” She concludes, “And I never want to see that cross-eyed pirate again.”
I guess I can’t blame her. But even so, I say, “I’ve already proven I’m a great cop, a sizzling construction worker, and a sexy duke. I think you can go ahead and tell me what an amazing model I am.” I sit expectantly like a dog waiting for a treat.
Finley’s expression turns from cool boredom to a smirk. “You’re doing great, Thomas. Really. In fact, I’m proud of you.”
“Are you making fun of me?” I just can’t tell with her.
“I’m not.” She walks right over to me and says, “You are an amazing model. I didn’t tell you because, well …” She takes a deep breath before saying, “I’m still mad at you for those pirate shots. I spent days thinking I was the worst photographer in the world.”
“You’re a great photographer,” I tell her enthusiastically. “Seriously, you saw the stuff we shot today. I can’t wait to show my parents.”
A brilliant smile appears on Finley’s face and her cheeks flush. “Thank you, Thomas. That’s very nice of you to say.”
“You see how good a little praise feels?” I respond.
Her head bobs up and down several times. “You are a smoking hot cop, a sizzling construction worker, and the snootiest duke I’ve ever met. Nice work.”
“Was that so hard?” I ask with a laugh.
“No, it wasn’t.”
I feel like we’ve finally surpassed our obstacles and we can start fresh. “How about if I take you out to dinner to celebrate our successful partnership?” I ask.
Finley, who has walked over to her laptop, suddenly stops moving. Hands in mid-air, she asks, “You want to have dinner with me?”
“Yeah, you know, to thank you for today.” I give her my best “I’m a good guy” expression.
“You know I’m charging you for these pictures, right?”
“Of course you are, but I’m also celebrating the fact that I have a new friend and a fake girlfriend when I need one. Being that both of those people are you, I figured I owed you a little extra something.”
Finley’s eyes move from the left to the right like she’s looking for the closest exit. But instead of running, she says, “You really do owe me. But you should know, I’m hungry. And being that we’re friends and nothing more, I’m not going to eat delicately in front of you.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her. “I hate dining with women who don’t know how to enjoy a good meal. My mom is always counting calories, and she feels guilty about enjoying her food. It makes me crazy.”
“It must be a generational thing,” Finley says. “My mom is pretty reserved when it comes to eating in front of other people.” She adds, “When she and my dad go out, she always asks for a doggy bag at the beginning of the meal. She puts half her food into it before she even starts.”
“That’s awful,” I tell her.
Shutting the lid on her computer, Finley tells me, “I don’t do that. In fact, if two different entrées sound good and I can’t decide between them, I’ve been known to order both.”
On my way to the costume rack to change, I ask, “Do you ever share bites with your friends?”
“It depends if they have something I want them to share with me.” Ah, she’s a tit for tat kind of lady. I can support that.
Stationing myself behind the screen of clothes, I tell her, “I’m always happy to share. And being that supper is on me, you can order as many entrees as you want.”
“That’s very noble of you.”
“It’s because I’m a duke,” I tell her. “You know, noble by definition.”
Finley laughs. “All right, Lord Culpepper, where are you taking me?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’ve only ever been to the diner. And while I’m happy to go back, I’m also game to venture out and try someplace new. Where do you think we should go?”
I can’t see Finley, but I hear her mumbling to herself like she’s weighing her options.
After several moments, she says, “I love the beer battered fish and chips at the pub, but I also really love the patty melt at the diner. Then there’s the lodge.
I hear their restaurant is first class, but it’s probably quite pricey.
I’d feel bad making you buy me two entrees there. ”
“I have a good job,” I tell her. “I’d be happy to buy you two expensive meals.”
When I walk out from behind the costumes wearing my own clothes, I discover Finley standing by the doorway leading to the front of her shop.
Her purse is slung over her shoulder and she appears ready to go.
“I’m not opposed to letting you spend money on me, but let’s go there another time.
I’m starving and I don’t want to have to go home and change clothes before we eat. ”
“So where are we headed?” I ask.
“My stomach is telling me patty melts at the diner,” she replies. After we walk through the front of her shop, she turns the lights off and we head outside. As she stops to lock up, I ask, “It’s nearby, right? I still don’t know my way around town yet.”
“Two blocks down,” she says. “It’s right across the street from my apartment building.”
“Good,” I tell her. “We’re going to have to walk. I don’t have a car yet.”
She side-eyes me with interest. “You don’t have a car?”
“I never needed one in New York City,” I tell her.
“Do you know how to drive?” Oddly, she doesn’t sound the least bit judgmental.
“I know how to drive in theory, but I don’t get a lot of practice so I’m not very good at it. My neighbor teaches drivers’ education in town and I’m thinking about taking a refresher class.”
“No!” Now Finley sounds downright excited. “I’m going to start taking a driving class, too. I just signed up.”
A cool breeze blows past us, making me wish I was wearing a heavier jacket. Even though New York City can get very cold, it somehow feels warmer than Elk Lake. It’s probably the exhaust from all the traffic heating up the air.
“You don’t drive?” I ask while jamming my hands in my pockets in hopes of warming them up.
Finley shakes her head but doesn’t elaborate. Well, she didn’t judge me, so I’m not going to judge her. Instead, I tell her, “Maybe we’ll be in the same class. I just hope I can fit it around my schedule.”
My new friend smiles at me like all barriers between us have been lowered.
Which is a relief. Not only will Finley and I be shooting pictures together, but we can polish up our driving skills.
If I can’t convince her to like me as more than a friend spending that amount of time together, I don’t deserve to be anything more than her fake boyfriend.