Page 24 of Delicate Storm

Okie dokie. “Great.” I smile again. I’ve been photographed almost naked before, and suggestively naked, but I’ve never actually shown anything.

But since my motto has always beennever say never, why not? They might end up being the photos I’m most proud of. You never know.

When the bath’s full and the water is confirmed to be at the perfect temperature—whatever that means, they’re not cooking a turkey—I slide in and make myself comfortable.

My already tight clothes cling to my body, and as expected, it takes barely a moment for my nipples to show through. I bite back a laugh, imagining the reception they would have received if the bath had been cold, and thank my lucky stars that it’s not.

The crew takes turns assessing the new visual in front of them—me—and while they update the lighting and decide on the best angles, I don’t feel self-conscious, like I thought I would. Instead, a sense of strength runs through me. And I own it.

“How do you want me?” I ask, waving my hands in the air, exuding the confidence I suddenly feel.

Then it begins.

We spend the next thirty minutes running through a series of poses—adding extra water when the bath turns cold—and when they’re almost done, the photographer asks if they can pour water on my head.

Since I’m all in now, I don’t have to consider it before I happily agree, knowing full well my mascara will run, assuming that’s the look they’re going for.

We continue on for another few minutes, and it’s the most fun I’ve had on a photo shoot. The photographers are easygoing and open to suggestions. The crew is great. The interview—which takes place with me wrapped in a plush dressing gown—flows like a conversation with a friend.

It doesn’t feel at all like work.

But I’m getting paid for it.

Yeah, I can fend for myself.Look at me. I’ll be paying my dad back in no time.

Call me “boss girl.”

My phone rings as the crew are packing up, and when I see that it’s Dad, I frown. We’re due to meet for dinner in an hour, so there’s a good chance this is an “I’m sorry, Kid. I got caught up at work” call.

You’d think I’d be used to them. Calls like that were a regular occurrence during my childhood. It was an “I’m sorry” call that ended my parents' marriage. The final straw.

Yet, here I am, my chest tight, my fight response activated. I refuse to let him get away with it now that I’m here. He wanted me to come. He better damn well act like it.

“Hi Dad,” I answer, ready to snap.

“Hi Kid, how was the photo shoot?” He seems cheery but he always was. He never saw it as an issue.

“It went well, thanks. Where are you?”

“I’m about ten minutes away. I know I’m early, but do you want me to pick you up on the way? So you don’t have to walk.”

What? My heart races as everything I was expecting throws my mind into shambles.

“Ah. Yes. Yeah. Thank you. That would be great. But I need to fix my hair and makeup. I might be a bit longer.” I step back and bump into the couch, snapping me out of my fog for long enough to see my expression in the mirror.

“That—”

“Actually, Iwillbe longer. Maybe thirty minutes.”

Dad chuckles at my interruption. “Works for me. It’ll give me time to get changed. It’s been a busy day. Maybe I’ll even shower for you.”

A smile pulls at my lips while my mind whirs. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Everything okay?” His voice softens, his tone reflecting his concern. But he doesn’t need to worry, because he’s already eased my mind.

“It’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”

Talk about an overreaction. I’ve been here for a month and Dad hasn’t let me down.

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