Page 10 of The Nanny and the Hothead
She frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“Why did you choose to study photography?” Professor Tran pressed.
That wasn’t a hard question to answer.
“Because it’s what I love.”
“Why do you love it?” the professor continued. “Boil it down to one reason.”
Charlotte’s mind raced. “I can’t think of just one reason.”
Shoot!
Janine opened the door and gestured for Charlotte to follow her out. “I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t see any image worthy of submitting to the Royal College of Art.”
“Oh,” she breathed, barely able to form the syllable.
“You have a little time, Charlotte. And the talent is there. You need to tap into it.”
“I still don’t understand, Professor Tran. What should I do?” she asked, trying to keep the soul-crushing disappointment from her tone.
“Extend beyond your comfort zone. The next time you pick up your camera, ask yourself what truth are you looking to reveal? Scratch beneath the surface. Show the world what Charlotte Ames sees,” the professor replied as the driver opened the door to the town car, and the woman settled herself inside.
Charlotte nodded, putting on a brave face as the car disappeared into traffic and tears welled in her eyes.
* * *
Her tires screechedas she pulled into the Crystal Creek Country Club’s parking lot like a bat out of hell.
She was late.
Again.
Tardiness seemed to be the template for today.
“Do not cry! You do not have time to cry,” she whispered to herself as she pulled into a parking space in an isolated corner of the lot.
Saying that the visit with Janine Tran had not gone as expected was an understatement. But all was not lost. She might have struck out with the professor, but she still had a shot at finding love. Once she finished working the event with Sutton Bryan, she had a date with destiny.
That’s how she had to frame it in her mind.
After she met Mr. Happily Ever After, she could replay her conversation with Professor Tran and figure out what going back to the beginning meant for her.
She cut the ignition, then pulled the lever to recline her seat. She’d become good at changing her clothes in the car. She twisted out of her skirt and pulled the first part of her event wardrobe from her tote. Wiggling her hips, she shimmied into the formfitting aquamarine lower portion of her costume. Next, she plucked the top part from the bag, then grimaced at the ridiculous thing.
What kind of ridiculous thing?
A shell brassiere—that’s right, a freaking shell bra—with gaudy aquamarine rhinestones hot-glued around the edges. Putting on this contraption without giving everyone within eyesight a glimpse at her breasts was no small accomplishment. Obviously, this wasn’t a skill one would list on a résumé. But she’d mastered the art of whipping off her regular bra and switching into the shell garment beneath her shirt.
A little boobalicious switcheroo in the parking lot!
With nimble fingers, she unclasped her bra, pulled it out of her sleeve, then went to work donning the most uncomfortable undergarment known to man.
Scratch that—known to women!
Men had it so easy in the clothing department.
She shifted in the seat and adjusted the shells to cover as much as possible—which wasn’t much. And ouch! The stupid thing cut into the sides of her boobs, something fierce.
