Camera Shy (Lessons in Love, #1)(6)
His brows are furrowed in anguish. “I don’t…know how else to apologize.”
I don’t even recognize him. How quickly a man can go from the love of your life to a complete stranger.
He actually looks relieved as I push away my plate of chocolate cake crumbles and scoot out my chair. I don’t exactly have a plan, but I collect my clutch and rise. When I walked in tonight, I felt like a goddamn piece. A knockout. A total ten. I’m leaving in ugly, fat humiliation…alone. How could this man’s perception of me so quickly change my own view of myself?
I pause by Mason and watch his face shrivel up in concern when he realizes I’m leaving without him.
“Are you going to call for a ride home?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“What home?” I whisper. I clear my throat and enunciate. “We no longer have a home.”
He catches my hand as I try to pass him. “Aver—”
I rip out of his grip. His hands feel cold and clammy, and I don’t want them anywhere near me. “Don’t you dare follow me.”
I flee to the restaurant entrance, maneuvering between handsomely dressed waiters carrying large trays of fancy dishes. I dart past our waitress on the way out and force a small smile as I say thank you and good evening. She’ll clue in once she sees Mason alone at the table, waiting for the bill.
I burst through the glass doors and into the crisp night air feeling like a free bird with clipped wings. I laugh to myself as I think about how abruptly the sky fell on such a pleasant evening. I never saw it coming. I didn’t suspect a damn thing.
Golden birthday…golden year…
My ass.
2
Finn
“Mrs. Mattley,” I call out from across the room, “can you arch your back and stick your butt out a little more, or will that be bothersome for your arthritis?”
My assistant, Lennox, blinks at me as I lower my Canon, peeling my eyes away from the LCD screen. I roll my eyes at her. “Yeah, I heard it,” I mutter under my breath.
“Weird sentence, man. Just weird.” Lennox lets out a breathy chuckle.
There is a seventy-year-old woman kneeling next to a large wooden-framed bed, trying her best to squeeze her breasts together and form some semblance of cleavage. I groan.
This isn’t working.
“She looks so uncomfortable,” Lennox says as she bumps her elbow against mine. “I feel bad for her. We need to start putting an age cap on these photo shoots.”
“Hush. She’s elderly, not deaf,” I say in a low tone. “This is really fucking brave of her. Be supportive and hope you’re this cool when you’re in your seventies.” I shoot her a warning look. “Go get me the really big red pillows from the main living room.”
Lennox stalls, her brows furrowing. She staged this set meticulously, down to the antique jewelry box sitting on the mirrored dresser. She even sanded and stained the wooden saloon doors because they weren’t the exact right shade for the photo shoot.
This set is the only reason my business is somewhat afloat. Not every woman wants their boudoir photographer to be male, which I understand. I really think I’m the best in the business. I know how to make a woman feel comfortable, respected, and championed, but they have to take a chance and actually hire me to understand that. But the Western set Lennox designed sways enough business our way. We have a lot riding on the fact that apparently every woman wants to be photographed as a sexy cowgirl.
Lennox is very particular about the set and I just asked her to bring in impromptu props that she did not approve. Tough. Deal with it. I’m the boss. She designed the set, but I run the shoot. I handle the clients when it matters most. It takes a very special personality to run a boudoir photography business—zero snark, snickers, and judgment allowed. “Hustle, girl.” Shooing Lennox off the set, I grab a mini bottle of water off the break table toward the back of the room.
“Here you go, Mrs. Mattley.” I hand her the water bottle after I twist off the cap. “You’re doing really great. How about a little break?” Holding her elbow firmly, I help her off her knees and guide her to sit. “There. Better?”
She nods and rubs her aching knees.
Poor thing. I really didn’t take into consideration how difficult some of these positions could be on her body. Even the tops of her bare feet are red from pressing against the wooden floorboards for so long. I can touch up the photos and remove the angry red pigment, but while I’ll mess with lighting and background blurring all day, I try not to touch up the models too much and disturb their authentic beauty. That’s the point of all this. Natural.
Sitting down next to her, I rest my back against the bed’s wooden footboard.
“They don’t look good, do they? The pictures? Can I see?”
Turning my head, I look into her steel-blue eyes with wrinkles around the corners. Even at seventy, I recognize the vulnerability. Most of the women I shoot are at least topless. Some, fully nude. Of course, not Mrs. Mattley. She’s more on the modest side, so the sexiest outfit we planned for her was a cap sleeve leather catsuit with a very low-cut V-neck for a little edge.
“You know the rules.” I give her a little wink. I never let my clients see their photos until the shoot is over. Insecurity is evil. It creeps into their minds and poisons the entire shoot. They either become too shy or overcompensate by contorting their bodies into weird positions, trying to hide the bits they’re most ashamed of. The secret to this kind of photography is bold confidence. They can see the photos after I’ve worked my magic. “But for your peace of mind, you are by far the most beautiful woman I’ve photographed on this set.” I give her a dashing smile and she snorts out loud.