Page 14 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
Rafe looks at me suspiciously. “How would you know?”
“I volunteer at the shelter,” I explain as I get out of the car. “I take photos of the dogs for their website. By the way, you should put a tracker on Princess. I know she’s chipped, but you don’t want it to get to that point. Super important with the runners.”
“Wait, what?” Lorelei does a double take, looking from me to Rafe. “You know Rafe’s dog? This really is a small town. And more to the point, you’re a dog photographer? Is this another one of Dean Riley’s jokes? Getting a pet photographer to do our headshots?”
It’s a good thing she hasn’t seen my camera.
“I don’t know,” Rafe argues with Lorelei as he snuggles the dog. “If it wasn’t for that photo of Princess on the website, I never would have stopped at the shelter. Clearly, this girl”—he pauses, looking me over and making eye contact as if he is seeing, truly seeing me for the first time—“what’s your name again?”
“Kenna.” I furnish my name, trying not to get lost in the depths of his dark-brown eyes.
“Kenna,” he repeats. My name sounds cooler in his mouth. More exotic. He puts the accent on the end. Ken-NA. “Clearly, Kenna knows how to take a compelling photo.”
“So maybe she can make it look like you’re actually housebroken,” Lorelei says archly.
Rafe smirks, visually acknowledging the ribbing, but doesn’t respond.
He’s still staring at me with those famous eyes. Still half naked. Still holding the little dog, who is looking at me like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Well played, Princess Von Floofy.
“Is that your daughter’s headband?” Lorelei skips down the stairs and pulls me out of my car. She loops her arm through mine. “And Kenna’s not a girl, Rafe. She’s a grown-ass woman. Have a little more respect.”
With this, Lorelei drags me off toward the guesthouse.
* * *
It takes an hour to tour the property. Since I want to take the photos outdoors, Lorelei shows me the rose garden and the dahlia beds full of dinner plate-size blooms. There’s a small Japanese garden with stone benches, a koi pond, and a firepit. And at the far end of the property, there’s even a small vineyard.
Closer to the big house, there are pergolas covered in wisteria and trumpet vines. We swing by the pool area, which has a full outdoor kitchen and bar outside a cabana that houses a home office. Fluffy, blue-and-white-striped towels that have been rolled into chubby cylinders fill the cubbies outside the restrooms. On top of the shelves, assorted sunscreens, body wash, shampoos, and conditioners are grouped in clusters, like you would see at a spa.
I’m too embarrassed to ask if they are for sale or freebies that come with the house. They are not the sort of brands you see at Target or the supermarket, and I’m dying to sniff them to see what they smell like.
“Have you tried the outdoor shower?” I ask Lorelei, pointing at the teak-lined shower with a view of the mountains. It’s surrounded by lush foliage.
“Not yet.” She shakes her head. “It seems like it might be a little buggy. Why? Is that the sort of thing you like? Are you into nature?” She’s staring at me so intensely, like she’s taking stock of my reactions and has been throughout the tour. At least I think she has. It’s hard to know for certain with her giant, black sunglasses.
I’m still unnerved by how much she looks like me, but not like me. Lorelei is like a china doll version of me with paler skin, fewer freckles, and higher contrast. Everything about her is groomed to perfection. Her long, glossy, black hair looks a lot like Barbie-doll hair, and her nails are painted a dark red—probably acrylic or gels, neither of which I have ever tried. She’s narrower than me and has possibly had lip injections. I can’t tell for sure. I’m trying not to stare, which is difficult. I am mesmerized by her exquisitely shaped brows.
Those brows command attention, animating her entire face when she speaks and adding so much drama. I never realized what a difference brows make. Like exclamation points and question marks. Without them, a face is unpunctuated. Wishy-washy. Like me.
For the first time in my life, I wonder if a salon procedure could change my life. Maybe if I had some fierce-looking eyebrows, I wouldn’t attract so many losers, like Cody and that cop. The new-and-improved version of me with perfectly shaped brows wouldn’t be panicking about a lack of career, impending homelessness, and being left behind by her friends and family. Kenna-with-brows would be a girl boss. She’d run pop-up pet photography events at coffee shops. She’d call it Hotshots. She’d be profiled in magazines. People would say her name like Rafe said it—Ken-NA!
I wish I could be that girl.
Finally, we head to the guesthouse where Lorelei is staying. She shows me into the kitchen, which is small but luxurious. Shiny, glass-fronted cabinets and sleek, granite countertops.
“Give me a minute. I just want to jot some notes,” I say.
I perch with one butt cheek propped on a leather barstool at the bar-height table and make a quick list of the areas I’m thinking might work, noting what equipment I’ll need to shoot in full sun vs. shade.
“Have a drink with me?” Lorelei asks, opening a cabinet door that is cleverly disguising a small refrigerator. When she pushes up her sunglasses, I see she has dark circles under her eyes. So she is human after all!
She takes out a glass pitcher. “I’m addicted to iced-tea lemonade, but I have some other stuff in the mini bar.” She points at a glass-fronted second fridge under the counter that is filled with a hotel room worthy assortment of beverages and snacks.
“Is that green tea?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she nods.
