Page 121 of The Nanny and the Hothead
His gaze moved methodically from the wall of pots and pans to the bank of ovens to the sink where he must have washed a thousand dishes alongside Holly and Seth. He tapped the arrow as a shot of the prep area appeared—the location of where he’d created the Signature Louise.
“It hasn’t changed,” he remarked, almost able to see the younger, gangly version of himself in the photo.
She nodded. “Helping Hands is one of those places where you can feel that life has been lived inside those walls.”
She’d hit the nail on the head with that assessment!
“It is. Louise and Ralph have helped a lot of kids get on the right path in there,” he replied, his voice a husk of a rasp. Charlotte didn’t say a thing—didn’t even move. She let him soak in image after image. Most of them were of him, but not all of them. There were shots of Sergio and Erick watching him cook and photos of Ralph and Louise inside the shelter. Then it shifted to the patrons. People of all colors and creeds clustered together, chatting, laughing, and connecting.
He peered at an image of the line of people that stretched past the community center. “It never feels like it’s this many people. I see them one at a time. I know they add up, but in my head, I focus on one customer, one order.”
“I can tell,” she replied as she evaluated the image. She relaxed into the chair. This wasn’t Charlotte, the nervous nanny. This was Charlotte, the confident photographer. And he’d be lying if he said this Charlotte wasn’t damned sexy. She pursed her lips, her expression growing pensive. “That was one of my favorite things to catch. People can tell that you want to cook for them.” She tapped the arrow and scrolled through three shots of him, demonstrating a technique to Erick. “And you’re a different cook in Say Cheese, Louise. There’s a flow to how you work, an ease. There’s nothing rigid about it.”
Rigid was the perfect word to describe what his life had become after he’d learned what Holly and Seth had been doing behind his back. Like a coil, twisting and contracting with each bitter thought, he’d warped himself into the brute of a man he was now. And he’d brought that harsh energy to the Crystal Cricket.
“Rigid, like how it was at the restaurant?” he tossed out, raising an eyebrow.
She held his gaze, unflinching. “Yes, rigid would be a charitable description of your management style at the Crystal Cricket.”
It was as if he saw everything anew with fresh eyes. He viewed the remaining images that captured his time with the reporters and then the impromptu pit stop at Whitmore.
“So, what do you think?” she asked as the screen faded to black.
He glanced from the laptop to her camera. “Something’s missing.”
“Is it something that has to do with cooking?” she asked, opening her notepad. “Would you like me to get more shots of the process of making the sandwiches? I could set up the ingredients to get more of a commercial feel. What I shot today has a photojournalism vibe—like you’re right in the mix.”
He shook his head. “The style and feel are spot-on.”
She picked up the pen that had been sandwiched between the pages of the notebook and tapped the tip to a new page. “Then what’s missing?”
He took the pen and notebook from her and set them aside. His gaze slid from the key at the hollow of her neck to her emerald eyes. “You, Charlotte. You’re missing.”
“Me?” she whispered.
“Yes, you’re a part of this. You’re the reason for everything. Taking out the food truck again, Oscar, not hating my guts—it’s you. You’re the spark,” he added.
The spark.
He thought back to what Ines and Louise had said to him. He’d lost something. Could he have found it in Charlotte?
She shook her head as that blush he’d come to adore caressed her cheeks. “That’s not the job of a photographer.”
“Says who?” he shot back.
She chuckled. “All of my photography instructors. I had a conversation with one of my professors—Professor Tran. She’s one of the most gifted photographers I’ve ever met. While photographers are part of the equation, she says that our job is to allow the story to unfold, unfettered and unencumbered by our biases. This is where we uncover the…”
The color drained from her cheeks.
“The what?” he coaxed.
She swallowed. “The truth,” she answered as if it hurt to say the words. Eyes shining, she’d never looked more beautiful or more vulnerable.
He picked up her camera. “I think it’s time we turn the tables, shake things up, and uncover your truth,” he finished, framing her in the shot.
She stared into the camera. “What truth do you want to uncover?”
His finger hovered over the shutter button for a fraction of a second before capturing her image. “Tell me why you chose to study photography?” he said, framing another shot.
