Page 85 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

“Then consider me flattered.”

Her eyes hold mine for a beat.

I’m about to ask her if we’ve met before, when she says brightly, “Let me buy you a drink.” She clasps my hand. “To make up for this?”

“Oh, no need!” I nod toward the bar, where Aila is, as we speak, making me another whiskey sour. “I’m all set.”

“You sure?” she says.

I smile. “Totally.”

“All right.” She playfully rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m out of here, then. Have a great night!”

It must show in my expression, my confusion that she’s leaving an event that literally started fifteen minutes ago.

She laughs a little sheepishly, then leans in. “I’m only here for a brand partnership. Get in, take pics, get out, ya know?”

My eyes widen. That’s when I finally figure out how I know her. I’m talking to Olivia Tobias. Ahugesocial media influencer. I don’t follow many influencers, but I’ve always liked her posts because they’re so damn beautiful—lots of shots of her in nature, flowers in her home, meals she’s cooked, pretty dresses she’s been gifted. I know it’s all heavily curated and she’s paid left and right to promote things, but it gives me a little serotonin hit, the same way reading historical romance does. Even though I know it’s not remotely close to reality, I still just enjoy the beautiful escape.

“Olivia Tobias?”

“That’s me!” she says.

“I follow your account!”

She sets a hand on her chest. “Stop it. You do?”

The feigned surprise is a bit much. She’s got more than a million followers. It would be more surprising if Ididn’tfollow her. But maybe she’s just trying to be humble and kind.

I smile. “I do. You take gorgeous photos.”

Her expression shifts to something softer. “Wow, thank you. Most people just say I’m really pretty or they love my clothes in my pictures, or they made that recipe I shared that I didn’t even come up with, I just got paid to cook and post about.” She sighs, her eyes holding mine. “It’s like the only part of my social media that’s actually me is invisible to people.”

I frown in sympathy. “I’m sorry, that has to feel like shit.”

“It really does! I’m a trained photographer. I love photography, and…nobody sees that.”

“Well…what if you…” I bite my lip to shut myself up.

Who am I to give her advice? She didn’t ask me for it. I have a bad habit of elbowing my way into people’s business when I’m concerned for them that is part inheriting Maureen Wilmot’s high-handed nurturer DNA, part growing up the protective oldest sister, part bad strategy for handling my anxiety that’s triggered when I see people struggling.

“What if I what?” she asks, stepping closer. “Say what you wanted to say.”

I hesitate. “What if you…posted aboutthat? A lot of people don’t understand how hard photography is. I only know because my sister is a photojournalist, and she’s had a camera around her neck for as long as I can remember. But most people have no idea what all is involved, how much of an art it is. If you shared what photography means to you, what goes into these gorgeous images you create, if you opened up and showed that part of yourself to people, you might realize it’s not that they’re dismissing that part of you, it’s just that they haven’t known how to see it.”

She smiles at me, but it seems tinged with sadness. “Basti said the same thing.”

“Well, I’d say Basti and I are onto something.”

Her smile fades a bit. She peers down and pulls out her phone.“What’s your handle?” She smiles up at me again. “I’d love to connect.”

It wasn’t that long ago that I had a killer social media presence for my PR consulting business. It’s all been archived since last November, since I stopped consulting to take care of myself and get my life back together. If there were ever a moment to resurrect my business, it would be to tell Olivia Tobias my handle, reactivate my profiles, try to leverage a connection with her, even try to take her on as a client.

Nothing sounds less appealing.

Because I don’t ever want to go back to working the way I did. I want this quiet, cozy life I’ve built for myself over the past almost year. I want to crank out enough articles to pay the bills and then spend every other minute of my time reading what I want, trying to write, cooking for fun and planting flowers and being with the people I love. I don’t want the grueling long days I used to pull, the constant pressure I put on myself to lock in more clients, the nonstop events and networking and schmoozing. Sure, I’ll always love helping people when I can; I’ll always be an extrovert and love to throw parties, to bring new people together and enjoy seeing the connections they make.

But just because Icando it as my job doesn’t mean Ishould.

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