Page 62 of Until Then

18

DERRICK

“This is ridiculous.”

Izzy, with a DSLR camera hanging around her neck, fixes the collar of my shirt for the fifth time. The woman is insisting that I let her take photos of me for the website she’s putting together.

I huff. “Nobody cares about what their contractor looks like.”

Her hand stills but stays pressed against my shoulder. It’s so small, her touch so delicate. If I put my hand over hers, it would no doubt swallow it whole.

“Putting a face with the brand is critical. A friendly picture helps tell your story, and your story matters. That alone can entice them to hire you over another company.”

She takes a step back, the warmth of her hand disappearing.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Her lips fight a smile at the nickname. “Lean against the column there. Yeah, just like that. Hand in your pocket. Perfect.”

It’s cute, the way she directs me. Despite how little I want to do the photos, it’s impossible to say no to Izzy. I would’ve gone just about anywhere she wanted for this photo shoot. Thankfully, she thinks taking them at home will not only show me off, but also several projects I’ve completed over the years. Like the covered deck out back where she has me posing now.

After she’s taken a handful of photos, she steps up close, bringing her sweet vanilla and honey scent with her.

She takes the strap off her neck and holds the camera out so we can both see the display, then flicks through the photos.

“What do you think?”

I look down at her, wishing I could bury my face in her hair or count her freckles.

“I think you’re extremely talented at everything you do.”

Pink tinges her cheeks as she peers up at me through her lashes. “Thank you, but I promise I’m really not.”

I’d beg to differ, but I keep my mouth shut on that matter. “Do you need more pictures, or is that enough?”

She twists her lips and flicks through the photos again. “I think we’re good with what’s here.”

“Good.” I nod. “Now go change.”

Brow furrowed, she studies me, opening her mouth then closing it again before she finally stammers, “I… why?”

“I’m taking you somewhere.”

Her eyes narrow, skeptical. “Where?”

“The beach. There’ll be a big bonfire there tonight. I thought you might like it.”

It’s not exactly my scene, but she has to be tired of hanging around the house.

“Okay.” She bites her lip in a futile effort to hide her smile.

She hurries inside, with Wonton running after her. I’m slower to go in, and as I pour myself a glass of water, she scurries around upstairs, the boards creaking beneath her feet.

Twenty minutes later, she comes down in an off-white crochet dress that hugs every curve. I physicallyachewith the desire to put my hand on the soft divot of her waist.

She’s braided pieces of hair, then pulled all of it back into a ponytail, with the exception of a few short pieces that curl on each side of her face.

“This isn’t too much, is it?” She waves a hand up and down her body.

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