Page 65 of The Temporary Fiancée
His camera-readiness only makes me more anxious. He’s doing his part just fine. If this goes poorly, I’m the problem.
As the photographer fusses with the camera, Reed glances down at me, smiling. His grin fades when he meets my gaze.
He can read me a little too well. “Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice.
I offer him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
His brow furrows. Before he can say anything else to me, the photographer calls out in a booming voice, “Is everyone ready? Let’s take our positions, you two.”
I do my best to hold the pose he wanted from me—my hand on Reed’s waist, his arm over my shoulders. It’s stiff and strange. I wouldn’t stand like this naturally.
And what is this picture going to turn out like, anyway? Is it just going to be the two of us, dressed to the nines, standing in front of an endless white void?
“Ms. Quinn, I need to see a little more joy from you,” the photographer says, sounding exasperated. “You look like you’rein pain. At least try and pretend that you’re happy to be engaged, eh?”
It’s a joke, of course—the photographer doesn’t know this is all fake—but it stings nonetheless. It’s a reminder that I have a role to play, and an even more biting reminder that I’m failing to play it.
Reed glances down at me, concerned, and my heartbeat quickens. He must think that I’m going to screw this up. He must be worried about his future.
The photographer snaps a few pictures, then steps away from his camera, scowling deeply. He walks over to one of the techs in the corner, and the two of them put their heads together, muttering.
“Reed,” I whisper. “I feel like I’m blowing this.”
“What are you talking about?” he replies softly. “You look beautiful.”
I swallow, trying to calm myself down and take solace in the compliment, but I can’t shake the nerves in the pit of my stomach.
After a long moment, the photographer approaches us, camera in-hand. “We have a bit of a problem.”
“Oh, yeah?” Reed says. “What’s up?”
“Why don’t you take a look at a few of these shots and see for yourself.”
The photographer holds the camera out to the two of us, and Reed takes it, holding it low so that I can see the screen. At once, I see what the photographer meant.
These photos are completely unusable. In each one of them, I look stiff and emotionless, like a subject in a flat, medieval painting. The camera loves Reed, of course, but that only makes the problem worse—next to him, I’m like a mannequin, a plastic figure displaying a gorgeous dress.
“See what I mean?” I mumble to Reed, who purses his lips, but doesn’t comment.
He hands the camera back to the photographer. “Yeah, these aren’t great,” he says casually, like he doesn’t care that much one way or the other.
The photographer raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me,” he mutters. He’s annoyed; I can practically feel the irritation radiating off him in waves, setting the rest of the techs on edge, too.
“Can we have a second?” Reed asks. “I need to ask my fiancé something in private, if that’s alright.”
The photographer hesitates, then nods brusquely, pacing away. He waves a hand to draw the attention of the other techs working on the photoshoot. “Take five, everyone.”
They start to clear out of the room, leaving me and Reed alone on the photo set. Reed puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. It’s a good thing he did it, because I’m so rigid in this dress that I couldn’t have moved on my own.
“Seriously,” he says. “What’s going on?”
I try my best to shrug; the dress makes it hard, and I don’t want to ruin my perfect, silky hair before the photoshoot. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
Reed frowns. “Do you remember the other night, when you asked me to communicate with you more?”
I nod, not sure what that has to do with the shoot. I knew we’d be taking our engagement photos today. None of this has been a surprise; I should have been ready for it.
“That’s a two-way street,” Reed tells me. “You need to let me know how you’re feeling. I want to make you comfortable. I really, really do. But if I don’t know what’s wrong…”
