30. A Room of Her Own
30
A ROOM OF HER OWN
Leighton
I could get used to this life.
The next morning, I’m standing on the second-floor balcony, sipping a steaming cup of Jasmine Downy Pearls—AKA the world’s greatest tea. The sun’s rising above the bay, and I tell myself yesterday was a mistake I won’t make again.
A delicious, toe-curling mistake. But even so, it can’t be repeated. Especially since he’s now my employer. It’s temporary, but who knows? It’s best if I don’t get more tangled up with a man who’s already so deeply entwined with my family and my job. Now, my jobs. But I also don’t want to take a chance with my future or with his.
He’s worked too hard to risk the uncertainty that comes with a fling with the coach’s daughter. I care too much about Miles and my dad to put either one of them in that position .
Today I’ll return to the friendship we’d been building. I have to. It’s the only way.
The morning light casts a golden glow over the water—a good signal for this shift back. Wanting to capture this moment before it passes me by, I lift my phone and snap a photo.
I send it to Miles with a friendly message since we’ve talked about inspiration before.
Leighton: This view speaks to my photographer’s soul.
Miles: Yeah? What’s the story you’re telling with this picture?
Leighton: It’s the story of a girl who had a good night’s sleep in a soft bed with four perfect roommates. They burritoed themselves under the blankets and didn’t say a single word all night long.
Miles: They are the perfect roomies. I’m glad you got some peace and quiet. I sent the pics you sent me to my mom—she says you’re a better dog-sitter than I am.
Leighton: What every dog mom really wants—pics.
Miles: OK if I set up a group chat with her?
I type back a quick, Of course.
I reread the exchange. It’s friendly, casual. Safe. A new day where we move past yesterday’s not-so-friendly encounter when he put me up against the wall and finger-fucked me so well I saw distant galaxies.
Maybe we slipped yesterday, and fine, maybe I stoked the flames last night when I sent him a photo of me in my cami, sliding under those soft, fluffy covers.
But today, Montreal is a country apart from me. An international border separates us, and three time zones too.
We’ll be back to the way we were—just like that.
After leashing the pack by the front door, I count them. “One, two, three, four,” I say. Miles insisted counting them regularly keeps you sane and he’s not wrong. It helps.
We head out to Crissy Field, the dogs trotting beside me, their snouts sweeping the ground for scents, their gazes surveying the landscape for enemy dogs.
AKA—any dog that isn’t them.
Boppity, the long-haired pretty girl, spots one a hundred feet ahead—a Doberman Pinscher jogging past with a woman. Boppity growls, low and menacing, all seven pounds of her (and that is mostly hair), before launching into an ear-splitting, how dare you walk past me bark. Boo joins in, backing her up.
“Boppity, you think you’re a German Shepherd, don’t you?” I ask.
She prances ahead, tail wagging sassily—a German Shepherd trapped in a Chihuahua body. I take a pic and send it to the dog chat captioned: Chihuahua Confidence Level—100.
So friendly.
I’m acing this return to friendship land .
Thirty minutes later, we’re back at Miles’s home, which is so delightfully quiet and free of roomie shenanigans that I could weep with happiness. I double-check the head-count as I lock the door behind us. “Everyone’s here.” I unclip their harnesses and set the gear on the dog shelf by the door.
A buzz from my phone distracts me—a photo from Miles’s mom of her hand holding a pina colada, the wide-open sea in the background, with a heartfelt thank you for the dog pics.
I smile. She’s loving her trip.
Miles sends a message just to me.
Miles: Thank you. Seriously, just thank you.
Sometimes text has no tone, but not this one. I can hear his gratitude, and it makes me feel shimmery.
After showering and applying a little makeup, I let the dogs out in the backyard one last time before gathering my camera bag so I can head out to a boudoir shoot. It’s Monday and I don’t usually do boudoir then, but with the team out of town, it was easy to schedule one for this morning.
But when I return to the living room, I only count three .
“Where’s Bippity?” I scan the room. No tawny, yippy pup cuddled with the others.
“Bippity?” My voice is light, but my chest tightens. I check the kitchen first—she’s not by the water bowl. I move to the little library. No tiny pup curled in the corner.
My pulse climbs as I race upstairs. “Bippity!” I call louder. Did I leave the balcony door open? The thought makes my stomach drop.
I fling open the bedroom door, relieved to see the sliding glass door shut tight. But still, no dog. Yanking the phone from my pocket, I toggle over to the dog GPS app Miles installed. As it loads, my heart pounds and I search the en suite bathroom. Then Miles’s walk-in closet filled with suits and dress shirts I should absolutely not touch later, then under the bed.
Nothing.
What if she Houdini-ed her way outside? What if she’s stuck somewhere?
In the app, I click on Bippity’s photo and then ask for her location. While it answers, I rush back down the hall, yanking open the guest room door. It protests with a groan, but I push it harder and hunt under the bed, then the closet, calling her name.
No luck.
The app brags unhelpfully: We found Bippity! She’s at home!
With an exclamation point, no less.
That’s good. Of course that’s good, but my pulse barely settles. I still need to find her and the app doesn’t pinpoint location to a room. After I dash downstairs, I check the backyard, pushing the door open in a nanosecond. No Bippity.
“Where are you, Houdini? ”
But the dog still doesn’t answer, and my throat tightens with fear. I don’t want to do this, but I need help. I call Miles.
“Hey,” he answers immediately, the sound of traffic and voices in the background. French, I think, since he’s in Montreal. “I was about to call you.”
What? Why? “You were?” I ask, barely masking my panic.
“Yeah, sorry to be a spy, but I’m guessing you can’t find Bippity. I got a camera alert from the dog-cam in the living room, and you looked a little frantic.”
Relief washes over me, mingling with irritation. “Where is she?”
“Check the guest room.”
“I did! And the app says she’s in the house, but I can’t find her.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s her spot. The guest room. She likes to hide there sometimes. I should’ve told you—I’m sorry.”
My heart races as I tear down the hall and reach the closed door. Weird. I definitely left it open moments ago. “How can she close the door on herself?”
“It’s the angle. It always falls shut, so I keep it closed, but if she slips in while it’s open, she gets a room of her own.”
I twist the knob and shove the door open. “She’s not here!”
“Look between the pillows,” he says, unbothered.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” I grumble, but I yank the pillows off the bed—and there she is. A little tawny peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich between two big pillows.
“Little stinker,” I mutter, scooping her up and clutching her close. She licks my face, entirely unapologetic.
Miles laughs in my ear.
“You’re laughing at a time like this?” I snap. “You should’ve told me about the Houdini pup!”
“I was going to. I even started to yesterday, but then, well, my brain kind of drained out of my head when you grabbed my tie.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say, but I’m already smiling as I carry her down the stairs.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, a smile in his voice. “But je ne regrette rien. ”
He’s speaking French. I don’t know the language, but I can figure it out. “You regret nothing?”
“Yep.”
He sounds delightfully smug. And the memory of yesterday flickers before my eyes, hot and bright. Pleasure curls in my belly, a reminder of what he did to me.
I’m supposed to be moving on. Resetting. Yet I have no regrets either. “Same here,” I admit as I set Bippity on the couch with the others.
“Yeah?” he asks, sounding…happy.
“Even though you’re the worst.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says smoothly.
I’m too intrigued by his promise to let it go, though I should. I’m sure I should. Instead, I ask, “How?”
Even with the noise of the Canadian city, I can hear a low rumble in his voice—god bless deep sounds. Then he says, “You could let me taste you properly.”
I gasp, faux annoyed, but really, I’m turned on. “We’re not supposed to do that,” I say, but it sounds like the lady doth protest too much.
“You don’t sound mad,” he observes .
“I was mad. I thought I was a terrible dog-sitter,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.
“You’re doing great,” he reassures me, dropping the flirting. “That was my fault.”
“Next time, leave instructions for the escape artist,” I say, not truly annoyed anymore.
“I will,” he promises. “I was distracted yesterday. But that’s on me. I should have given you a heads-up about her tricks. I’m glad you called, though, even though I was about to call you.”
“Spy,” I mutter, though a part of me likes how much he was paying attention.
“I only used my dog-cam for good,” he says, then pauses. “Anyway…I’m glad you called because it’s good to hear your voice.”
I told myself I was resetting, moving on. But now, all I want is to talk to him. “How’s Montreal?”
“ J’aime cette ville, ” he says.
“I love it here?” I ask.
“I love this city, so close enough.”
“And do you speak French?”
“Only enough to be dangerous.”
“How did you learn it?” I ask. “Or if I go into your library, will I find books written in French?”
He laughs. “I’m not that good. I read in English, but I know enough to get by since I went to McGill.”
Oh, right. “I remember that.”
“You remember it?”
“I looked up your bio. After I met you,” I admit.
He laughs softly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. I’ve said plenty of nice things.”
“True. You have. But that’s up there. ”
“Wow. I need to raise the bar for myself then,” I say, petting Bippity to calm her—and, if I’m honest, myself.
“No, don’t change a thing,” he says. “I’m also good with languages. It comes easily.”
“I’m not jealous at all,” I say.
“You know another language,” he points out.
I smile. “True. I do.” Then I glance at the time, sighing. “I should go. I have a boudoir shoot.”
“Too bad,” he says, sighing with some reluctance. “I was going to the Museum of Illusions with the guys, and I stepped down an alley behind an old church to talk to you instead.”
“Me over illusions with the guys. Quite the compliment,” I say, but inside I’m giddy.
“I’d always choose you,” he says, and the air escapes my lungs. I’m quiet for a beat, the stillness humming in the air.
It’s like his words have settled into the distance between us, bridging the miles. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
Because what I really want to say would make this even more complicated.
I want to say— choose me.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to say it,” he replies, then adds, in a tone full of longing, “thanks for calling. You can call anytime.”
I know he means it. I hang up, and before I go, I snap a photo of Bippity, lounging with smug indifference in her heated dog bed now, alongside the others in a row of little dog hot tubs, and send it to him with a caption: Your fur sister has zero remorse.
Miles: What can I say? She’s got my stubborn streak. But I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I think back to the deal we made, to the reset I promised myself. But here I am, breaking my own rules. And the truth is, I regret nothing too.
Leighton: Counting down the days.
Even though I shouldn’t.
“You looked beautiful,” I tell Sophie once more as she lingers in the doorway of the studio. She booked the session as an engagement gift for her fiancé. He got me a ring; I’m giving him silk and skin, she’d said earlier, spinning around in red and black lingerie—his favorites.
“Is it weird that I felt beautiful?” she asks, her hand resting lightly on the red door.
I shake my head, smiling. “Not weird at all. That’s fantastic. I’ll be in touch soon to show you the whole set.”
“Can’t wait,” she says, and with a bounce in her step that wasn’t there when she arrived, she disappears down the staircase.
That fills my cup. I started doing boudoir photography in the first place to empower women—capturing the moment when a client starts to see herself differently, beautifully. I don’t want that moment to slip through my fingers. To fade into a blur. I want women to be able to hold on to it always. To remember it. And, when I look back at photos I’ve taken, I can feel their joy. Right now, I carry her joy with me as I straighten up the studio.
The door snicks open, and the click of heels interrupts the quiet as I’m re-hanging a robe. I glance up to see Mai Akamai, a statuesque Japanese woman, striding in with a whirl of jet-black hair and an oversized recycled-plastic purse that she tosses onto the ruby chair.
“Did you hear?” she asks, skipping pleasantries entirely.
I brace myself. Good news rarely starts that way. “Hear what?”
She gestures broadly at the lush studio we’ve curated so carefully, with its sapphire chaise longue and ruby-red chair. “The landlord is raising the rent.”
The silk robe freezes midair in my hand. “Seriously?”
“Twenty percent,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. She flops into the chair, throws her head back dramatically, and lets out a groan. “I didn’t know landlords were taking villain lessons these days.”
My stomach sinks. “Twenty percent? That’s highway robbery.”
“And his reasoning? Get this.” She smirks. “Costs have gone up. Like, what? Air costs more now?”
I hang the robe with deliberate care, gripping the hanger tightly. “It’s space. He already owns it.”
My mind spins. Twenty percent more rent isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a threat to everything I’ve built here over the last year or so. Everything I need to make it on my own. My chest tightens with worry .
But there’s no point in stressing. Time to solve this problem. “We could look for another space. Maybe band together with the other photographers here and find something better?”
Mai’s eyes light up. “Yes! Girl, yes.”
The truth is finding another space could be just as expensive—or worse. My to-do list feels endless already: dog-sitting for Miles, this studio, shoots for the hockey and football teams, my editing backlog. Can I handle adding a studio hunt on top of everything else?
No idea, but I’ll have to find a way.
By the time I arrive at the Sea Dogs arena, after stopping at Miles’s place to let the four-pack out, I’m no closer to an answer. But I do my best to set the studio issue aside when I run into Melissa at her cookie concession cart. It’s closed now, since there’s no home game of course. But she’s hanging up some new signage with Christian’s wife, Liv, who’s got two little twin toddlers sitting nearby on the floor, listening to a story that Melissa’s school-age daughter—I’m guessing that’s who the blonde with pigtails is—reads to them from a kid’s book.
“Hey, Leighton!” Melissa calls out, urging me over.
I stop, checking out the pink and purple typography on a pretty white sign advertising cookies. “Hey. How’s it going? The new sign looks good.”
“Thanks. I bribed Liv to help me out,” Melissa says, nodding to her friend. “With my new sexy and sweet cookies.”
“You did it? You made them?”
“I did. You’re the inspiration,” Melissa says.
“And they worked. I’d pretty much do anything for them,” Liv says.
And the proof of that is right in front of me with Liv helping out. “I’m so glad. I’m guessing you’re not selling them here though?” I ask Melissa, since I doubt lingerie-shaped cookies will fly at a family-friendly sporting event.
They both laugh. “Nope. I’m selling them online,” Melissa says, then bends down behind the counter of her cart and pops up quickly with a bag. “But here’s some for you if you want. As a thank you for the idea.”
I peer inside at a handful of pink, red, and white bra-shaped cookies. They’re adorable. “I will enjoy these tonight.”
I say goodbye, then tuck the treats into my bag and head to my temp desk to edit some evergreen content—more high-pawing shots of Scuppers and the team, as well as adorable snaps of players tossing crocheted rescue dogs into the stands at the last home game. The team partnered with a local charity to make and sell the dogs in the likeness of Scuppers, and the pictures are perfect for Chanda to post on off-days.
I narrow my focus to the task, only the task. But the number keeps circling in my mind—twenty percent, twenty percent. No matter how I slice it, it’s too much.
I pause on a shot of Miles, flinging a crocheted dog to fans eagerly stretching their arms to catch it. He’s having a blast. Something he didn’t have in Vancouver with his injury. Something he’s having now, playing for this team that my dad manages.
My heart squeezes.
He’s not doing it on purpose and yet my feelings for Miles always find a way to complicate things—on the ice, off the ice, and somewhere in between. Then again, I complicate his life too.
All those complications should be reason enough to resist him. Really, they should .
By the time the marketing meeting starts, I’ve managed to finish the batch of photos. Everly, Zaire, Chanda, and Jenna gather around the conference table, and Chanda briskly runs through the week’s schedule. It’s all business until she glances at me with a grin.
“And,” she says, excitement spilling into her tone, “the pics of the Sea Dogs with rescue pups were so popular we’ve decided to do a team calendar this year with Little Friends. And thanks to the fan vote on last night’s picture…” She raises her eyebrows my way. “Miles, in his suit covered in puppies, was voted the cover model. Can you take on the project of shooting the calendar?”
Another project on top of everything else? But I’m not saying no to something that I made happen. I took that picture because I had a feeling it’d be social gold. And, I was right. That’s enormously gratifying. And this project feels meaningful, no matter how busy it makes me. It’s a chance to grow my brand, to prove I can handle work like this at a high level. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me keep the studio afloat. Isn’t that what a businesswoman does anyway? Adapt, expand, innovate. Grow . Like Melissa with her bustier cookies.
“Absolutely,” I say as a part of me wonders if this is the start of more work with the team. And what if this turns into regular freelance assignments? If I leaned more into team photography, would that make our forbidden romance even more complicated? And more dangerous?
You’re not having a forbidden romance, girl. You had one sexy day. That’s all.
That’s what I tell myself. Except, the math isn’t mathing. I had two sexy days. But that doesn’t turn this thing into a relationship.
And besides, the calendar can help with my bigger goal: to make it on my own.