Chapter 12 #2
I glanced up at the sky, the rain may have slowed, but the clouds were still there. My mind went briefly, unhelpfully blank. I couldn’t picture my calendar without opening it.
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly. “Let me check.”
“Okay,” he said easily. Then, softer, more deliberate, “Text me as soon as you know. Even if it’s just for a couple of hours.”
Another beat. Not heavy. Not demanding.
“Flash,” he added, and I could hear the smile in it, the affection threaded through the word. “I need—” He paused, then blew out a breath before he admitted, “Want to see you.”
My chest tightened in that quiet, familiar way. “I will,” I said. “I promise.”
“I really do have to get back to work,” I said finally, regret threading lightly through the words. “But as soon as I can actually look at my calendar, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” Dominic said, easy but attentive. “Just text me. Even if it’s messy or tentative.”
“I will.”
A pause settled between us, comfortable, unhurried.
“I miss you,” he said then, no hedging this time.
My smile softened. “I miss you too.”
Another pause—warmer now, affectionate in a way that made my chest feel too small for my heart.
“You’re falling in love with Paris,” he said, indulgent rather than accusing.
I grinned, leaning back against the café wall as people streamed past. “Too late. I’m already in love with her.”
His chuckle was low and warm, threaded with something that felt like pride. “Well,” he said, “that just means I have to work harder to keep your attention. Even if I have to share you with her.”
The words sent a flutter straight through me, excitement tangling with something deeper and more complicated.
“I don’t think you’ll have trouble,” I said lightly, even as my system churned.
“Good,” he replied. “Talk soon, Flash.”
“Soon,” I promised.
We said goodbye, and when the call ended, I blew out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The moment that thought crossed my mind, I let out a startled laugh. I’d become one of those women in the books I loved.
I was still riding that high when my phone buzzed again as I crossed the street toward Paris Daily.
Her.
What about tonight?
There’s a little place not far from the Daily—quiet, good wine.
I smiled at the screen, pulse ticking up again. Effervescent felt like the only word for it.
Sounds good,
I typed back.
What time?
She suggested one that fit neatly into the mental margins of my day—just enough space to finish everything at the Daily and still make it without having to leave early.
I’ll see you then.
I replied.
The newsroom swallowed me whole the second I stepped inside—voices overlapping, phones ringing, the steady undercurrent of movement and purpose. My desk held a neat stack of contact sheets with René’s handwriting scrawled across the top.
Two were circled decisively.
The other two had a single annotation: Non.
I smiled despite myself.
Of course he wanted something else.
I slid into my chair, already pulling the rejected images back up on my screen, letting the rhythm of the room carry me forward. Notes came in. Tasks stacked themselves neatly into the hours ahead. The day hummed along, vibrant and alive, everything moving just fast enough to keep me sharp.
And for a little while, everything fit.
The afternoon moved in clean increments.
Edits. Emails. A short assist on a layout tweak that turned into a longer conversation about framing.
Someone swore loudly across the room when a file corrupted; someone else laughed like it was a joke they’d heard before.
Coffee appeared on my desk without explanation. I drank it anyway.
I lost track of time in the best way.
René passed once without stopping, glanced at my screen, and said, “Better,” like it was a complete sentence.
It was.
I was halfway through flagging a new set of selects when his voice cut through the newsroom—sharp, rapid, unmistakably irritated.
“Putain, mais c’est pas possible.”
Heads didn’t turn. This wasn’t unusual enough to warrant attention.
René stalked past my desk, phone pressed to his ear, muttering under his breath now. Something about schedules. Someone’s name I didn’t catch. A string of clipped French so fast—I really couldn’t make out the actual words—that ended with a sharp exhale.
He hung up and turned immediately.
“Rachel.”
I was on my feet before he finished saying my name.
“Yes?”
The irritation hadn’t left his face, but when he looked at me, it shifted—focused, redirected. Not anger. Assessment.
“They changed the location,” he said. “And the timing.”
I didn’t ask who. We were booked to do a huge shoot in a couple of days. I blinked. “Changed how?”
He made a short, dismissive gesture with one hand. “The day shoot is gone. Someone didn’t confirm permits. Amateur hour.” His mouth flattened. “We shoot tonight.”
Tonight.
I processed that in a half-second and nodded. “Okay.”
René’s gaze sharpened, as if he’d expected resistance. Or questions. Or hesitation. Maybe I’d surprised him.
“You’ve never done a night shoot,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
“You will stay close,” he continued. “You will watch the light. You will not guess.” A beat. “You will not apologize.”
Something in my chest lifted and tightened at the same time.
“What time?” I asked.
He glanced at his watch. “We load in at nineteen hundred. On location by twenty.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Cancel any plans.”
The words landed cleanly. No cruelty. No judgment. Just fact.
“Understood,” I said.
René nodded once, already turning away. “Good. Bring fast glass.”
That was it.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the newsroom noise rushing back in around me. My phone felt heavier in my pocket now—not buzzing, not demanding, just present.
Drinks. A quiet place. Good wine.
I opened my phone, went to her message where she’d hearted my last reply, and typed:
Sorry, have to cancel. Something came up at work. Night shoot. Maybe next time.
I sent it before I could soften the edges or explain myself further.
Then I closed it out, exhaled slowly, and began to reorganize my bag—packing the disappointment away with practiced efficiency. Extra batteries. Memory cards. Lens choices shifting in my head as the light outside the windows thinned from gray to something darker.
This was new territory.
When I finally shut down my computer and slung my camera bag over my shoulder, the day had fully given way to evening. Paris waited outside, wet pavement catching streetlight like it had been rehearsing for this all along.
I followed René out into the night. We didn’t take the metro—he had a car waiting. The trip was swift even with traffic, and at least the rain had stopped fully, though the clouds still hung low. It was going to be dark, but maybe not wet.
“Stay close,” René said after the car dropped us off, a reminder of his earlier orders.
I didn’t reply. He didn’t need it. I was about to be so close I’d look like his shadow.
Just before we stepped into the glow of the location lights—before the work truly began—I paused. Heart racing. Mind sharp. Everything I’d chosen pressing in close.
Then I crossed the threshold.