Chapter 16 #2
“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard,” Reed replies. “Seeing as we’re not staying in the studio.”
“We’re not?” I blurt out, surprised.
He turns to me, grinning. “I’m feeling something more casual. How do you feel about natural lighting?”
“You must be out of your mind,” the photographer mutters.
Ignoring him, Reed takes me back into the dressing room, searching through the racks of clothing for something a little more comfortable for me. He finds several options for me to choose from, but none of them are nearly as beautiful—or obviously expensive—as the gown I’m currently wearing.
“Reed,” I whisper to him, pinching the fabric of one of the dresses, “these aren’t formal enough for this. What if people think I’m—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures me. “You look so unhappy in that dress. Come on. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I just want you to be comfortable in your own skin.”
I take a deep breath, then change out my expensive dress for one of Reed’s options, a silk, off-the-shoulder number the color of coffee beans.
It’s simple, nowhere near as elaborate or stunning as the one I was originally wearing, but I can’t deny that it’s more comfortable.
The fabric breathes. I feel like I can move in it.
When I emerge from behind the curtain in the new dress, Reed beams widely and gives an appreciative whistle. “There we go,” he says. “That’s more like it.”
I glance in the mirror. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely. Now why don’t you re-do that makeup, huh?”
“What do you mean?” I shake my head. “I’m never going to be able to make it look this good. Those people were professionals. And you sent them all out of the room.”
“I want you to look like yourself,” he says. “Just do it how you would do it if we were going out to dinner. You looked so beautiful at Cole and Riley’s party—do whatever you did that night.”
I bite my lip, but follow his instructions, heading over to the makeup table and using a cotton swab to remove the glam job the makeup artist gave me. Then I reapply—basic foundation, mascara, an understated eyeliner, and a brown eyeshadow that matches the dress.
When I’m done, my look is much more natural, but I still can’t help worrying that it’s not enough.
These pictures are going to be public, and I’m positive the media is going to latch onto my every flaw—flaws that are almost certainly much more noticeable now that I’ve shed the protective layer of expensive styling.
When I turn to Reed, though, he gives me a huge grin and a double thumbs-up. He seems genuinely delighted by my casual look.
“Much better,” he says. Then he turns to the photographer. “Okay. I’ve got a driver out front. If you come with us to the park, I’ll make sure you’re compensated extra for your time.”
“This isn’t how I do things,” the photographer complains. “You come into my studio—”
“Listen, for your rate, you ought to be able to get a good picture anywhere,” Reed tells him. “I should be able to say, ‘let’s go to the moon for this shoot,’ and you should be able to figure it out.”
“That’s not how this works.”
Reed shrugs, unconcerned. “Then I guess I’ll find someone else. Taking pictures outside isn’t unheard of. Should be easy enough.”
The photographer makes a big show of scoffing and rolling his eyes, but ultimately, he doesn’t argue further. The three of us head outside to meet Reed’s driver, who takes us through the city to Central Park.
As we walk through the park, heading toward Reed’s unknown destination, he offers to carry some of the photographer’s equipment—probably in an effort to soften him. It doesn’t work. The photographer maintains his irritated scowl.
Reed leads us to an empty gazebo at the edge of a small pond. He steps inside, turning in a circle to face us. “What do you think? Much better, right?”
I nod, following him inside. The view behind the gazebo is beautiful, with trees in full bloom and clear water rippling in the breeze. Maybe the outdoor photoshoot was a good idea, after all.
Reed leans up against one of the gazebo’s weathered, gray posts, then wraps an arm around my waist. He glances at the photographer. “Will this work?”
The photographer is already adjusting his camera on a tripod. He peers through the lens, then nods. “It’ll do,” he says gruffly.
“Glad to hear it,” Reed says, his tone cheerful. His support—plus the more relaxed environment, and the more comfortable dress—has me in a much better state. I lean back against him as he drapes his arm over me, and smile up at him.
The sound of the camera shutter takes me by surprise. I look over at the photographer, who is frowning down at his camera.
“Something wrong?” Reed calls to him.
He shakes his head. “The opposite, actually. This is much better.”
“Thought it might be.” Reed pulls me into his arms, then dips me low, like a parody of some old movie. Gone With the Wind, maybe, or some Audrey Hepburn flick. I laugh, scrambling to keep my balance.
“Reed!” I yelp, giggling. “What are you—”
“Posing,” he says melodramatically. “Thought that was what we were supposed to be doing.” He leans close and whispers in my ear, “How long do you think before this guy starts yelling at me?”
“If he hasn’t already—”
“I can hear you,” the photographer grouses. “Come on. You know you’re paying me by the hour, right?”
“Of course,” Reed says. He shifts me upright, holding me in a more casual pose. I’m aware of the constant sound of the shutter as the photographer takes pictures, but it starts to become background noise as I look up into Reed’s eyes.
I start to relax into his arms. His hands rest at the small of my back, and his touch is soothing through the soft fabric of the dress. I let my head fall against his chest, and feel the vibrations of his voice as he speaks.
“I’m glad we came out here. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Yeah,” I agree, glancing to the side to take in the view of the water. The sun sparkles on its surface. “It is.”
His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. There’s something tender in his eyes, and even though I know it’s an act for the camera—even though I know we’re here as part of our contractual obligations—I can’t help but be drawn in.
We didn’t talk about the pictures much beforehand, so there’s no agreed-upon poses we need to get. The photographer was directing us in the studio, but now that we’re out here, he’s quieter, apparently content now to let Reed take charge.
My heart races as I see a flicker of heat in Reed’s brown eyes. For a moment, the sound of the camera fades away completely as he leans down to kiss me.
The kiss is gentle, at first. Then it deepens, almost to the point where it’s too passionate for the photoshoot. It’s affecting, even though I know that Reed is playing to the camera; when he pulls away, I have to fight the urge to pull him back toward me.
I can take some small comfort in the fact that he seems every bit as dazed and breathless as I do. He lingers close, his lips inches from mine, as though he can’t decide whether or not to kiss me again.
Click.
“That’s the best one yet,” the photographer calls out. The sound of his voice breaks the spell, and suddenly, to my dismay, Reed and I are no longer the only people in the world.
Reed pulls away from me. There’s a brief flash of disappointment across his face, then he’s all charm again, smiling over at the photographer.
“Let me see,” he says, striding away. I resist the urge to reach out and grab him by the arm. Instead, I follow him over to the tripod to check the photos.
The photographer takes us through a dozen quality shots. There’s one of Reed dipping me over his arm. My face is contorted in mid-laugh, and I hear Reed chuckle quietly next to me. When I shoot him a glare, he shrugs.
“It’s cute,” he promises. “Really. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
In the next photo, my head is leaned against Reed’s chest. Then there’s a shot of Reed holding me, his hand cupping my cheek. Then several of our kiss and its aftermath from multiple angles.
They look stunning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that these photos were the real deal.
Something about seeing our kiss in a photograph stirs the feelings of desire and warmth within me all over again, and I glance at Reed out of the corner of my eye, wondering whether he feels the same way.
Our gazes meet. Heat creeps into my face, and I look back at the camera’s screen, quickly, before I can dwell on it.
“Thank you,” Reed says to the photographer. “These look great.”
The photographer gives him a nod. His earlier annoyance seems to have faded; his attitude is much more genial now that he’s taken some pleasing pictures. Plus, he has Reed’s bonus to look forward to.
“Glad you like them,” he says. “Obviously, I’ll need to touch them up back in the studio before they’re ready to be released, but it shouldn’t take too long.”
“Sounds great.” Reed shakes his hand, then turns to me, holding out his hand.