Page 67 of Holiday Romance
“Which was how?” I ask, confused, but he only shakes his head, his attention on the camera.
“Whatever you do,” he says as he goes almost unnaturally still. “Don’t smile.”
“Shut up.”
The lens shutters.
“What did I just say?” he says in mock outrage as my lips twitch. He clicks again. “You know what they say about cameras stealing your soul, don’t you?”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“I just want you to know what you’re getting into,” he says, and finally lowers the camera, looking pleased as he checks the screen.
“Done?” I ask. I weirdly feel a little out of breath, but I suppose that’s the effect when Andrew Fitzpatrick turns his full attention on you.
He nods and I hold out my hand. “Let me see it.”
“Nope.”
“Let me see it!” I grab it off him, but only because he lets me, pulling the strap over his head as he clicks something and a screen appears, showing me the last photo he took.
For a moment I don’t recognize myself.
My hair has dried naturally in gentle, frizzy waves and the cold has left my nose and cheeks pink while the rest of me is bathed in the soft glow of the fair. I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking at Andrew. Looking at him with a smile I’ve never seen before. Whenever I pose for a photo, I usually smile with my lips closed thanks to my two crooked front teeth. Someone made a passing comment about them when I was fourteen and I’ve never forgotten it. Honestly, I’ve never had a photo taken of myself where I haven’t anticipated how I was going to look. And how I thought others would look at me.
My lips are open in this photo, my eyes creased, caught mid-laugh as I turn slightly away from him. I look like I’m having the time of my life. I look like I’m in a winter wonderland. I look…
“I lookamazing.”
“I’m just a really good photographer.”
I’m far too pleased to even think of a retort. “Can you send me this one?”
“Of course.”
I start to hand the camera back, but change my mind at the last second, cradling it to my chest. “Can I take one of you?”
He pauses. “I won’t lie, I know you’re a capable, professional adult, but that camera cost three grand so if you—”
“Thanks,” I say, ignoring his sigh as I peer through the lens. That much I know how to do. “What do I press?”
“The big red button.”
I make a face at him but to be fair, I guess that’s the answer.
“Say cheese,” I mutter, trying to frame him as he did me. For someone who’s used to being on the other side of the camera, he doesn’t look awkward, just leans against the railing, his body facing the water, while his face tilts my way.
I hesitate. “It won’t be as good as yours.”
“I hope not, seeing as I’m a professional,” he deadpans. But his expression softens. “Just feel it,” he says simply. “It’s not all about science and angles and light. Sometimes you just… feel.”
Feel. I guess I can do that.
“Think about something that makes you happy,” I say, clicking the button again.
He smirks. “Like you?”
“Maybe not me,” I say without missing a beat. “Let’s try and keep this shoot PG-13.”
