Page 27 of The Weight Of Falling
I raise my eyebrows. “Floating as in...?”
“As in not being held. Not dropped. Just hovering.”
“Right. Naturally. As fruit does.”
His lips twitch. “So Kate rigged this whole elaborate system using backdrop poles and transparent threads tensioned from the ceiling, each fruit spaced exactly right for depth and symmetry. It took hours. The lighting had to be controlled to avoid glare on the thread, and I knew I had to shoot at just the right angle.”
I’m leaning toward him, fascinated. “I bet most people have no idea of all the behind-the-scenes work that goes into a shoot.”
He looks pleased that I get it. “Food styling and food photography are more technical than people think, and this shoot was particularly complicated. I was seconds away from getting the shot when the client decided it looked too static. So without warning us, he turned on one of those big industrial fans.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. Strawberries, oranges, and cherries went flying. A banana took out a light. A couple of kiwi slices may or may not have slapped Kate square in the face.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back a horrified giggle. “No!”
“I had to intervene to prevent her from going for the client.”
Laughter spills out of me. The image is too vivid: Kate, eyes blazing, covered in fruit, seconds away from launching herself at a clueless client. She’s never exactly been a people person, andher tolerance for anyone interfering with her work borders on nonexistent. She told me once that’s why she likes working with Joel. He’s focused and calm and doesn’t indulge in gossip. The one person she trusts to match her intensity without making a mess of it.
Something tugs unexpectedly in my chest. It’s nothing big, just the way Joel talks about Kate, and the way she talks about him. It’s easy and familiar. A partnership built on connection. I know how important the relationship is between a photographer and a food stylist, how much trust it takes to create something that looks effortless but isn’t.
And I know there’s nothing between them, but their closeness brushes against something small and unsure inside me. Something I’m a little ashamed to admit even exists.
“You two make a good team,” I say quietly.
He nods. “There are only three food stylists I’ll work with, and Kate’s one of them.”
He continues to talk about his work, and I’m listening, but my gaze keeps straying to his hand holding his glass. I remember that same warm hand curled around the back of my neck, holding me still. My skin warms from the memory, and I shift in my seat.
His brow furrows. “Are you okay? Are you comfortable?”
Not with the direction of my thoughts, no.
I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you. It’s a comfortable chair.”
A corner of his lips twitches. “Were you expecting something uncomfortable?”
After a pause, I say honestly, “I’m not sure what I was expecting.”
He lifts his eyes from his drink, and we stare at each other. We both know I’m not talking about chairs. There’s chatter from the people around us and classic rock playing out of the speakers, but it barely registers. The space between us feels alivewith the memory of our kiss. It’s the oddest feeling. For all intents and purposes, we’re complete strangers, yet we’ve shared an incredibly intimate moment. His mouth has been on mine. I know the taste of him. The feel of him pressed against me.
It seems casual and fun whenever Joel makes a joke about our encounter in the storeroom, but when we’re wrapped in silence and staring at one another, the kiss takes on an importance neither of us is prepared for.
“So, why a greeting card illustrator?” he asks, pulling us away from the edge of the gulf and back into safer territory.
“I’ve always loved drawing,” I tell him. “I was the child who doodled in the margins of every worksheet. I went to art school thinking I’d end up in editorial illustration or children’s books, but I interned with this small greeting card company one summer, and it just clicked.”
A flicker of curiosity crosses his face. “What was it that clicked for you?”
“I think it’s the variety,” I tell him. “No two cards are the same. One day I’m sketching a cat in a birthday hat, the next it’s a bouquet of flowers or a snowy cabin. It keeps things interesting.”
He’s still looking contemplatively at me, as if he senses there’s more to the story. And there is. But I feel suddenly hesitant to share it with him. Do I really want to peel back a layer of myself on what’s supposed to be a light, easy date?
No, I don’t.
Instead, I say, “I also get to work with my two best friends. We run our own studio. It’s creative and chaotic, but it’s ours.”
