Page 67 of The Temporary Fiancée
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 intomystudio?—”
“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.
