Chapter 8
Nick’s stomach grumbled as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. He’d woken up well before his alarm and laid in bed, unable to go back to sleep. And now he was suddenly ravenous. He’d decided to give up on sleep and head downstairs for breakfast and was just reaching into a drawer for a pair of shorts when there was a slow, quiet knock on his door.
“One sec,” he called. He pulled his shorts on hastily, noticing as he did that the bruises on his knees and at the backs of his legs had turned an unpleasant vomit-green colour, and zipped up his fly as he walked to the door.
He pulled the door open, one hand still on the button of his fly, and felt his head jerk back in surprise.
It was Carly, a takeaway coffee cup in each hand, and a brown paper bag hanging from her wrist. She was wearing denim shorts and a loose pale blue linen blouse, under which he could just see the thin black straps of a bra. Her hair was pulled up in a high bun this morning, but a few curly red strands had already fallen out and were stuck to the sides of her long neck. It made her look frazzled, an impression reinforced by the serious little frown on her face.
“Hi,” she said quietly. “I brought you breakfast. Well, breakfasts, plural, because I wasn’t sure what you’d want. But I figured Australian cafés have taken over New York for a reason, and it’s because any Australian breakfast is a good breakfast. So I figured that since I’m jetlagged you’re probably also jetlagged so you may be down for a bit of breakfast right now since some places aren’t even serving breakfast so we could have, like, breakfast together because why not. And I’ve just said the word breakfast so much that it no longer has any meaning.”
Nick stared at her and said nothing, first because surprise stole his words, then because her rapid-fire blathering was irritating, and then ultimately because he didn’t particularly have anything to say to her. From the moment he touched down in Sydney, Carly Montgomery seemed to have made it her personal mission to make his life a living hell. Why would a surprise breakfast together at 6 AM be any different?
“I don’t want breakfast,” he said gruffly and watched as her face fell. But then his stomach grumbled loudly, and the ghost of an evil smile curved her mouth. She schooled it quickly and returned to her serious, determined expression.
“Just in case you do want it in the near future, then, can I interest you in some avocado toast? Or a bacon and egg sandwich on a brioche bun?” Carly lifted her arm gently, so that the paper bag swung and the smell of cooked bacon wafted towards him.
Nick’s treacherous stomach gurgled again, and she grinned. Damn it.
“I’ll take the sandwich,” he said. His mouth was already watering.
“You got it. And the coffee? Skim cappuccino with one sugar, right?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly as she nodded and handed him the right cup. She remembered his coffee order? “Thanks.”
Then an awkward silence stretched between them.
And stretched.
And stretched …
“Can I … come in? Just for a few minutes?”
“Why?”
“Please?”
“Why?”
“Please?”
Carly’s voice had ticked up several octaves, and Nick arched an eyebrow, calmly taking a sip of coffee. He was starting to enjoy this. “No, tell me why first.”
With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Carly blurted, “Because I have something to ask you, and I’d feel really stupid laying it all out and asking it here, in the hallway, outside your door when I’m trying my hardest to be nice!”
Nick hesitated for a moment, tempted to take the bag with both breakfasts and slam the door in her face. It was basically what she’d do to him if he were to ask her for any kind of help. But the serious look on her freckled face and the fact that she’d shown up unannounced with a peace offering at the crack of dawn were enough to tip him into the realm of mild curiosity. Nick stepped aside and tried not to notice the smoky floral scent that trailed behind her as she entered his room. Once inside, Carly set the bag down on the desk and fished out a lumpy package wrapped in aluminium foil.
“Bacon sandwich,” she said. He nodded his thanks, then sat down on the bed and unwrapped the package on his lap. When he looked up, it was to see her perched on the desk, watching him.
“I wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. This time her voice was firm and steady, nothing like the rapid and breathless spilling out of words she’d arrived with.
“Which part?” he said, unable to resist the retort. He bit off a mouthful of the sandwich. Shit, it was good. Another thing the French didn’t do all that well. Sure, they invented brioche, and they knew how to make a croque monsieur, but a bacon and egg sandwich with barbeque sauce just tasted like Australia. Like home.
“All of it. It was nice of you to listen to me vent, and I should have heard you out. I know you were just trying to … help.” She rolled her shoulders back as she said the last word, as though she was trying to wriggle away from it. “I have, uh, a bit of a temper, as you’ve probably noticed. I’m working on it.”
He swallowed his mouthful of brioche fast, because part of him wanted to reply, Work harder. But another part of him realized that this apology, right now, was part of that work. She was trying.
“Apology accepted,” he nodded. He took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “But you really do have an Anne of Green Gables–level problem.”
Her eyebrows shot up in question.
“You know, Anne of Green Gables? Red hair? Major temper? Smashes slates on boys’ heads?”
“I know who Anne of Green Gables is,” she said. “I just didn’t think you would.”
“Please. I have a sister who was a big time horse girl. I know who Anne Shirley is.”
“Um, right,” Carly said, with a little shake of her head. She took a sip of her coffee. “I’ve been thinking about the promotions calendar problem. And I think I’ve come up with a solution. Well, Heather came up with a solution.”
He raised his eyebrows in question, and she took another gulp of her coffee, then swallowed hard.
“I need to boost my profile. Show NYB that I’ve got lots of people who are interested in me and will want to come see me dance bigger roles. And I was thinking that social media would be one way to do that.”
He nodded and tossed the final chunk of the sandwich into his mouth. Social media was like a second, part-time job for some dancers these days, especially Instagram, because it was so visual. He’d mostly stayed away from it as a dancer, but once he’d started his photography business, he hadn’t really had a choice. He also hadn’t had much success convincing people to follow his account, and he doubted his posts there had translated into any business for him.
“So as it turns out, I need your help,” Carly went on. She sighed the words out, as though it caused her deep spiritual pain to say them. “You’re a photographer. And I need photos. I know we’ve got wedding stuff to do, but I thought that in between, we could do some shoots around Sydney. It could be good for both of us.”
Not likely, Nick thought. They couldn’t get through a single wedding errand without an explosion of some kind. And now she wanted to work together? He crumpled up the sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the bin next to the desk, but it bounced off the rim and hit her sandal.
She bent at the hips the way dancers did—the way normal people, with normal hamstrings, found totally bizarre—and deposited it in the bin. As she bent, her blouse lifted at her waist, revealing a small expanse of smooth skin stretched over rigid lines of muscle. For a split second, he wondered what it would be like to have those muscles in the grid of his camera, how her small but steel-strong body would look balanced in an attitude—or even more dramatically, a penché—her hair unbound and flowing like living fire with the ocean waves crashing behind her. Golden hour would look great with her complexion. Wide aperture setting, f/2 probably, to not wash her out. Rim lighting, if we can time it right. Maybe a few long exposure shots, capture her movement. Some close-ups. I think I have the right bounce cards and color gel to really showcase the gold in her eyes … Suddenly Nick found his heart racing, and he quickly pushed the thought away, averting his eyes so that when she straightened up, his gaze was on the floor.
“So, what do you think?” she said hopefully. He looked at her frankly.
“I think it sounds like you’re asking me for help, but you haven’t actually asked me anything yet.” Her eyes widened, as though she’d been on the verge of rolling them and barely managed to stop herself.
She took what looked like a deep, calming breath. “Nick Jacobs, will you please help me with this, by doing something that will also be quite beneficial to you?”
“That’s more like it,” he said with an approving nod. “And no.”
Her face fell and she let out an exasperated kind of growl.
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “How many reasons do you need? I don’t want to. I don’t think we’d work well together, seeing as every time we cross paths it’s a total disaster. I’ve got best man stuff to do. I don’t think your plan will work anyway. And lastly, unlike you, I don’t need to boost my career.” He’d told that final lie a little too forcefully, a little too unkindly, and he instantly regretted it. He could reject her request without being a dick about it.
Carly seemed to agree, because her cheeks flushed, and then she closed her eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly, as though she was counting silently in her head. When she opened them again, he was surprised to see a look of desperation in them, and a sheen of tears that made the golden brown shimmer more brightly than usual. Regret twisted in his gut again, and he shifted uneasily on the bed. She might be a human hurricane, but Carly Montgomery was still a human, and he’d clearly hurt her feelings.
“Please. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need your help,” she said quietly. “I don’t have any other ideas. And I know you don’t need this, but I do.”
Telling him that he was her last resort hardly helped her case, he thought.
“I don’t think so.” He said it firmly, hoping he didn’t sound cold or unkind.
“Well, I do think so,” she insisted. Her voice was a little louder now, and just as firm as his, and he was starting to realize that she wasn’t going to be put off by his insults or by his attempts to let her down gently. He remembered the way she’d yawned the other day—stubbornly and with her whole body. “Don’t you want to boost your profile, too? You barely have an Instagram presence. I checked.”
“I … I don’t need one. I’m in demand enough without one.” What utter shit. As if it was a secret sign of success to be almost unfindable online. It wasn’t. His tiny follower count wasn’t some power move, it was a sign of how miserably he’d failed so far. But … If he did this for Carly, he’d be able to add a whole new series of photos of a dancer from one of the world’s best companies, taken on the other side of the world. The few jobs he’d managed to book had all been in Paris. It would make him look like an international photographer. No, it would actually make him an international photographer.
He bit his lip. Sensing he was wavering, Carly pressed on.
“I was thinking you could take some photos on some beaches, maybe out in the bush Heather is always telling me about. I don’t know, on the Harbor Bridge or something?”
He rubbed one hand over his head, thinking of all the picturesque places in this city where he could photograph her. Even though she’d probably find a way to get them both drowned, or to accidentally push him off North Head. He shuddered.
“If you want to boost your followers that much, I don’t think dance photography in nature is what you need. What you need is—”
“Save it,” she said. “Heather’s already made the nudity joke, and it’s not that funny. Please, Nick. I’m desperate, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think there was something in it for you. If nothing else, you could write your ticket off as a work expense.”
Well, she had him there. Even one-way tickets to Australia were steep, and now that he had no reliable source of income, he needed every write-off he could get. And it could be an interesting addition to his portfolio, a location rarely seen. And if he could compose the shots just right …
He shook his head and sighed, knowing he would regret what he was about to say, and probably very soon. But he also had the distinct impression that if he didn’t say it now, she’d keep arguing with him until he finally caved. Better to save them both the time and the headache and just get it over with.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” he said, and she gasped.
“Really?” she asked, eyeing him closely, as though she half expected him to wait a beat and then say “just joking.”
“Really. As long as it doesn’t interfere with wedding stuff. I really don’t want to let Marcus and Heather down.” Though it occurred to him, as he said it, that there was some appeal to having another task in front of him, another project he could work on and hopefully succeed at. Even if he also had to work on this one with Carly.
“It won’t get in the way, I promise,” she grinned, and Nick imagined that same joyous smile captured by his lens, her freckled face turned towards the sunrise as she casually tied her pointe shoes on the steps of the Opera House. He studied her for a long second, took in the way her eyes sparkled with excitement, relief radiating from her face. It made his heart race again, and it set off a strange throb in his chest.
“We’re going to make you an even bigger photography star, and we’re going to get me promoted. When can we start?” It had been a while since he’d made that expression appear on a woman’s face.
“Um, we can probably start tomorrow,” he ventured. “Tomorrow afternoon.” Maybe by then she would have figured out some other plan and convinced some other sucker to go along with it.
She raised her eyebrows at him, looked out the window. “It’s not even 7 AM. Why waste two whole days?”
For God’s sake, this woman was relentless. “Because I might have things to do?” he said, rising from the bed and throwing his empty cup into the bin. “I might already have plans for how I’m going to spend this whole day.”
She frowned at him, skeptical. “And do you?”
He paused. “No,” he admitted under his breath.
She grinned again, triumphant, and there was that throb in his chest again.
“Then we start today. Let’s shake on it.” She thrust her hand out, and he took it without thinking, wrapping his fingers around her palm and feeling it clammy with sweat.
She gave his hand one enthusiastic downward tug. He returned it, a little more gently, and she gave a strange, relieved little giggle. He looked down into her delighted face and couldn’t keep himself from smiling. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total disaster.