Page 58 of Pick-Up
“I think we’re in bizarrely good shape.” I nod. The truth is, when you’re planning a shoot on a deserted island, you really have to consider every contingency before you arrive. You can’t be running to the store for safety pins and duct tape when the lone shop sells only sunblock and terry cloth beach cover-ups. “Even the photographer is in great shape.”
Ethan gives me side-eye. “He’s in ‘great shape’? And by that you mean…?”
“He’s got everything under control.” I shrug. “And he’s so nice too.”
“By ‘so nice,’ do you mean, ‘so nice-looking’?”
I turn and glare at him. “What is wrong with you?”
How dare he! I am Professional Sasha. I don’t notice super beautiful photographers! Sorry. Beautiful andtall.
“I’m just saying, the women, and men, tend to like Charlie. Maybe he’s your type too?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, all casual, like my answer couldn’t matter less. But the way he bites his lip suggests something else.
It’s too easy to mess with him.
“And if he is? My type? What do you care?”
“Just making conversation.” Ethan shrugs. Flustered, he rubs the back of his neck.
Whatever game we’re playing, in this instance, I am winning! Not that Professional Sasha cares.
“Whatever,” Ethan says. “Anyway, we play basketball together.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Did you box him out one too many times?”
“What?”
“Foul him too hard?”
“Sorry?”
“Dunk on him and then assuage your guilt by offering him a job?”
“Ah, I see,” says Ethan, rolling his eyes. “Like you think I did for you. Job opportunities in exchange for guilt. Very funny.”
“I am funny.”
“Sometimes unintentionally.”
I shoot him a death stare. Why is he standing right next to me? Is it warm in here? I can’t focus. It’s not helping that he smells good, like that mowed-grass cologne. I pull my (literally rose-colored) sunglasses down over my eyes.Boundaries.
From across the room, I see Derek watching us and wringing his hands.What is he so worried about?
“Interesting though,” Ethan says.
“What’s interesting?” I say.
“You look at me and you think I can dunk.” He flexes his tricept.
“OhLord.”
That’s when Stephanie walks in. Finally. She is definitely wearing dark sunglasses and all that implies. But she’s here, and she’s got coffee in her hand. She spots us and raises her cup in cheers.
I wave.
An hour—and many random requests of the hotel staff—later, we’re all set up and good to go, only Martin is nowhere to be found. One contingency for which we did not plan. An egomaniacal retired movie star with a probable drinking problem.
