Page 80 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
A tiny toddler elbow pokes me in the ribs, and I feel Orly reaching for me, her fingers flossing my tee. I fell asleep fully clothed last night, listening to Rafe reading her bedtime stories. He did fantastic voices for every character in her book, of course. What a lucky, lucky little girl to have landed with him.
Except, she hasn’t always been so lucky. She lost her mother, after all. Protectively, I curl an arm around her, and she snuggles into me. I inhale the strawberry scent of her fuzzy curls and sigh happily. My eyes are open. But this is a dream. This is like a movie. A Disney one.
I’ve made a decision to leave all my real life problems back in Ephron. Here in sunny Anaheim, California, they do not exist. I’m putting my worries on silent mode. Tomorrow morning, when I fly home alone on a commercial jet, using my own ID, and make the switch back with Lorelei, I will resume my normal life. But today, I plan to embrace everything about being a celebrity princess. And if that includes embracing my costar, so be it.
“Boker tov.” Rafe’s eyes flutter open, and he reaches an arm across to push the hair out of my face. I can’t possibly look as good as he does in the morning, but the way he’s gazing at me makes me feel like I do.
“Stop looking at me like that!” I say, quietly, “and what does Bokehtov mean?”
“Boker = morning, tov = good. And so far, my morning is looking pretty good.” Rafe turns onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, still gazing at me and Orly. He pulls the covers up over his daughter a little.
“I thought you said ‘bokeh,’” I muse, looking at the soft morning light filtering in from behind the windows.
“What’s that?” Rafe asks.
“It’s a camera term for when you get a shot with a sharp foreground and a blurry background,” I say, thinking to myself that the morning light filtering in through the windows behind Rafe would make for one hell of a buttery background. If only I had my camera. I take a mental picture instead, zooming in on his face, framed by his tousled hair. His neck and shoulders are bare. He must have taken off his tee before he fell asleep. The taut muscles contrast with the wrinkled spill of white sheets.
“Speaking of cameras …” Rafe turns away and reaches under the bed, pulling out a large, gold gift tote. “I got you a little something.” I cannot move without waking Orly, so he tilts the tote forward to show me the contents.
I gasp.
It’s not the Sony camera I wanted. It’s the one that’s two models up. At least twenty-five hundred dollars more, and that’s not counting the two extra lenses that are also in the bag.
“Rafe, I don’t know what to say. I can’t accept that,” I stammer.
“Kenna, I looked up all your work on the shelter’s page, and I checked out your landing page as well. You are extremely talented. You have a way of capturing things so naturally and authentically. I know that’s hard. Anyone can take a picture of people or flowers or a stunning view. It’s a rare artist who reallyseesthings in motion and 3D. More than that, your images show off the subjects’ souls. They capture moments and tell stories. I want to invest in that, inyou, and your work as a photographer. I believe in you.”
I blink a few times. Rafe Barzilay looked at my site. He thinks these things about me?
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to me as he stretches. I watch his back muscles ripple and tense, then unlock. My hands ache to reach out and touch them. I want to feel him moving under my palms. I want him to keep talking.
“Any chance I can hire you to write the copy for my site, Rafe?”
Rafe looks back over his shoulder at me and grins. “I am not … what is the expression?” His forehead furrows as he thinks. “Blowing smoke up your butt?”
“Up your skirt!” I laugh.
“Oh, right. Well, I like butt better.” He winks and stands up, walking a few feet to look out the window. “And I will admit, I have selfish motives. Today is going to be magical, and I want as many photos as possible, so you’ll be doing me a favor. Orly will only have this ‘first’ once. You can never take too many photos of this stuff,” he pauses, “in my opinion.”
“My mom felt the same way,” I say. “She was always taking a million photos, most of them awful, but I am so glad that I have all the old albums now.”
“I wish I had more photos from my childhood.” Rafe stands and walks to look out the window. “The real ones. Not the posed family shots and press photos.”
“What do you see out there?” I ask, watching him lean forward to look out the window.
“We have a great view of the pool. It’s Mickey-shaped. Orly would love it.”
“It’s too bad there’s not enough time to go swimming.” I sigh.
“Next time,” Rafe says. And then he pulls on a tee. “I’m going to go scare up some coffee for us and see who else is up. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I’m good,” I say, snuggling back down into the comfy bed with Orly, who now has a foot jammed into my tummy. “I’m good.”
So good.
* * *
“To wig or not to wig?” I say, holding up the wig in front of me.
