Chapter 7 #2
I like coming home to Meadow. And being greeted in the barn with sleepy yawns and loud purrs.
And I like getting to know the girl I found in the ditch.
Prescott and her sharp wit. She quickly relaxed into her saddle.
She’s looking around at the rolling pastures and the mountains in the distance rather than fiddling with the reins and watching each step Biscuits takes.
She’s moving with him now, naturally, and not questioning her every breath.
She clearly has experience, but now she’s enjoying the ride. I’m sharing this with her.
Can we do it again with fishing? Maybe, but she’d like a tit for tat. What is there that I haven’t done that she could help me with?
I’ve done a lot of things that would make her blush. Finding out how far down her creamy skin that blush goes could easily become another obsession, but I’m playing this safe. What wouldn’t make her run and hide from me?
She rescues strays, and she’s a photographer. An idea sparks. “I’ve never had professional photos taken. Like a photo shoot.”
“Never?”
“Other than school photos and Iverson’s wedding? No. None with just me. Our mom wasn’t the portrait type.” She never even ordered those school photos.
She’d laugh and say, I know what you look like. I don’t need to pay for it.
Her brows draw together, and those plump lips purse. The swish of Gravy’s tail fills the silence. “Not even senior pictures?”
“We were lucky to graduate. My brothers and I mostly worked so we could move as soon as I was done with school.”
She considers me, holding the reins loosely. I didn’t have to correct one thing about how she saddled Biscuits or her seat, nor did I have to make any suggestions. Her dad taught her right, and those skills have been lying dormant, just waiting to be used. Is that what photography is like?
“How long has it been since you did photography?” I ask.
“Five years. Right after my mom died, I decided to move with my ex when he got a job in Chicago. I used the transition to rescue a cat. Buford the Boss Cat.” She chuckles, and the loss is loud and clear—of both her mom and cat. “He was a photogenic little bugger. One of a kind.”
“The ex?”
She barks out a laugh. Biscuits huffs. “No, he was not.” She purses her lips.
“Actually, he was. After Buford died, I tried to keep posting. A lifestyle account with photography lessons. I used him a lot as a model to show techniques. So when another influencer posted and got the back of him sitting on her bed, he was recognized. I had a big enough following for that,” she says bitterly.
“What a fucking asshole.”
She grunts. “The fucking part was more accurate than I thought. Two more influencers called him out for playing them. He traveled for work and used Buford to connect with them.”
“Ah, hell, Red. No man should’ve treated you like that. Was he at least good to the cat?”
She nods. “You know, that’s the only thing that might’ve opened my eyes. I trailed that idiot to Chicago, and then I stayed. Getting strung along. Anyway, yes, he was decent to Buford.”
“You going to post the kittens or Meadow?”
“No.”
I draw back at her quick answer. Does she realize how much she lights up when she talks about them? The way she wielded her camera was natural, and I could watch and listen to her all day. I could do that without the camera.
“I deleted it all,” she explains. “I don’t have the will to start up again.”
“But you have all that footage. I bet it’s good.”
“It is.” When I smile at her confidence, she matches my grin.
“With Buford, it just happened naturally. His account grew organically, and then I started getting cat food and supply companies hitting me up for sponsorships. Even a pet DNA company. My Prescott Photog endeavor failed, and I don’t want to feel like I’m using the animals. ”
Her social influencer adventure failed when her ex betrayed her.
Was the drama all anyone cared about afterward?
All public and impersonal, when to her it was very much personal.
My private life is speculated on enough.
It was like that growing up, and it’s like that now.
I go on a date, and people are wondering if she’s the one.
But there’s no one. I’m not stringing a girl along the way Prescott’s ex did to her.
“So I stay offline,” she says. “But I enjoy taking pictures. How about a senior photo shoot after fishing?”
If she wants to change the subject, I’ll let her. I’m soaking up everything she tells me and storing it away in a part of my memory that’s filling up with all things Prescott Keys. Starting with her red underwear. “Red, I need time to prepare. I’ve gotta get a haircut. I have to pick my clothes.”
She bites back a grin. “You need at least two outfit changes. I used to charge per location too.”
“How much will I owe you?”
She looks aghast. “Are you charging me for the ride?”
“Hundred bucks an hour.”
“What a coincidence. My rate is a hundred an hour too.”
Her quick wit keeps me on my toes. “An even trade. Horseback riding for a senior photo shoot. I’ll let you know what we can trade for the fishing tomorrow.” I’ll have to think of it first. Something that takes a lot of time.