Chapter 21 Photographic Proof
Photographic Proof
Keir
Ingrid and I sat through a painful photoshoot—something I never thought I would say. Cameras loved Ingrid. They somehow captured both her sexy, approachable openness and her true sweetness at once. Today, however, she was having a breakdown. I couldn’t put my finger on it. She looked not herself.
“Baby, are you alright?” I asked. “You’re a bit… stiff.”
“I’m…” Ingrid looked for words. “This feels wrong. Like… all of it.”
I cocked my head. “Like us? The engagement— “
“No, mon cher. I feel totally off in this outfit. It’s not me at all and I don’t think it’s working.”
Literally everything and nothing at all worked on Ingrid. She was objective perfection.
“I thought you wanted to dress down?” I asked.
“No, Keir, you wanted to dress down. I did not. We don’t take engagement photos in casual or smart casual attire. It feels off.”
“We’re not people who often put on airs— “
“Keir, I’m not a commoner. I don’t need to dumb it down. I want to be in a nice dress and have you dressed properly in a suit.”
I let out a long sigh. I did not wish to wear a suit. We’d been over this.
“You realise my mother is a commoner, right?” I asked, annoyed.
Ingrid shot me a look as if to remind me she did not care, and also, that wasn’t what she meant. Her beautiful blue, emotive eyes said more than words.
“What is it she would like?” The photographer asked.
“She would like to change the formality of the photo shoot,” I explained, talking for Ingrid in a way I knew sounded off-putting.
“I can speak English,” she clapped back in Norsk.
Back when we broke up that one time in what I later described as the “darkest period,” Ingrid perfected Norwegian from a place of pettiness. She was so clever and formidable that she would learn another Scandinavian language to annoy me. She trotted it out whenever she wanted me to feel it.
“I would like a ballgown. I feel like standing here in trousers is so unlike me,” Ingrid said. “I don’t wear trousers. I have a few looks. None of them are dress slacks. They do not compliment my body at all. I feel I look like a man.”
“You do not look even the least bit masculine, baby. You look beautiful.”
“I hate it. Casual is not me, Keir!”
She continued in annoyed Norwegian. “I did this because you want to, but if you think I am acting stiff, try to see it my way.”
“You spend most of your time covered in horsehair!”
“That is one of my looks. My looks are horse girl not-chic, horse girl chic, jeans and a t-shirt, professionally elegant dresses, and evening gowns. Those are my looks.”
“How did you learn all those words for all of that?” I gasped.
“I speak four languages, Keir. Keep up!”
She seethed, thinking I insulted her intelligence.
I usually loved her temper. Her nostrils flared and jaw set.
She dug in like a stubborn young horse refusing to trot.
She raged until either I broke her with a kiss or apologised.
I longed to throw her over my shoulder and take her upstairs for a mid-morning fuck. Instead, I was about to grovel.
“I’m sorry,” I said in Norsk. “You’re right. You did this for me. It doesn’t work.”
“But?” Confusion spread.
“No buts.” I pulled her towards me by the hips.
Naturally, Ingrid stared up, chin tilted and eyes still resistant.
I played with the cleft in her chin. “I was wrong. You were correct. We can change if you have something to change into.”
Ingrid nodded as if entranced. She loved to watch me grovel.
I didn’t quite understand why it captivated her.
I supposed she wasn’t used to people taking care of her.
Her life up until her teen years was kept under lock and key.
She was used to people shouting at her, not brushing her on the cheek lovingly.
“Okay?”
Ingrid nodded.
I gave her a slow kiss, wrapping her in my spell and knowing this would pay off later, then set her free.
I turned back to the photographer.
“I don’t know what was said,” he remarked, “but you are so lovely together. Did you do that for my sake?”
“No, we were having a go. She wants to change into something more formal, so we shall,” I agreed through gritted teeth.
“I will wear a dress,” Ingrid declared. “And you will wear at least a sport coat. Keep it smart, alright? I will keep my hair down as you like it, and that will be that.”
I didn’t argue. Nor did I tell her I only liked her hair down so I could run my fingers through it and pull tight when I kissed her. She lived for that beautiful sort of torture.
“We will reset,” the photographer said, annoyed but taking it on the chin.
Ingrid turned to leave, her shoes clacking on the hall floor as she marched.
“She’s a fiery one, that lass,” the photographer said
“She is. She’s also the bravest, brightest woman I’ve ever met.”
And I cannot wait to fuck her senseless later.