Page 3 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
I pet the sleeping dog absentmindedly as I text.
You do know I’m a pet photographer?
We want to work with locals. Pets are way harder to capture than people. It’s just headshots. It’ll be a piece of cake for a pro like you!
I eye my old Canon DSLR dubiously. It’s flattering that Dean thinks I can handle this. But even if I can, I’m pretty sure my camera can’t.
Can I think about it for a day or two?
There’s nothing to think about. Can’t wait to introduce you to Lorelei Dupont. You two look so much alike, it’ll be a trip. Let’s discuss more on Monday.
I’ll get back to you.
Great, as long as you say yes. I’m counting on your help!
There’s no way I can take photos of actual celebrities with this camera. And there is no way I can afford to buy a new one. My heart sinks with the certain knowledge that I’m going to have to let him down.
kenna
I’min the middle of remaking a drink, for the fourth time, when the cute cop with the whiskey-colored eyes and buzz-cut hair skips to the front of the line, leaves cash and a generous tip for his cinnamon bun, and winks at me before leaving. He looks so familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Did I see him at The Onion or The Grumpy Stump? There are only so many places that people my age can socialize here in Ephron.
My phone, sitting beside the register, lights up with a burst of animated hearts and flames on the notification screen. One new match on the dating app. I can’t resist tapping the screen to see who I matched with.
That’s why the cop looked so familiar. I saw him on the dating app.
“Hey, are you going to gimme my drink, or what?” The disgruntled customer demands my attention.
“Okay.” I set the phone down. “That’s a four-shot, half-caf, soy milk latte … no foam.” I push the drink across the counter. “Did you need me to take its temperature this time?”
The man in the black beanie fixes me with an exasperated stare. “If you don’t mind, honey.” He taps his fingers on the counter impatiently. I can’t help but notice the dirt under his nails. Gross.
“You got it!” I chirp with mock cheer. I plop the glass food thermometer into his drink. We both wait while the mercury rises. I’m sick of remaking this drink. The other attempts were all unacceptable to him. Too foamy. Too milky. Too hot. The Starbucks mermaid herself couldn’t please this dude. He even had the nerve to ask if there was anyone else who knows their way around the espresso maker better than me.
“Nice camera,” I comment, looking longingly at the Sony camera with the superzoom lens slung on his hip. He glances down at it, stroking it proudly and preening a bit.
“Yeah, she’s a beaut.” His face softens slightly.
I remove the thermometer, reading off the number. “It’s 195 degrees, exactly.”
“You sure? Maybe you didn’t leave it in there long enough. I don’t wanna get burned.”
“If you wait much longer, it’s going to get cold,” I say, pushing the paper cup toward him. “And you look like you could really use it. Just take it. It’s on the house, same as the other ones.”
And if he doesn’t like it, there’s a Circle K down the street with a coffee machine that I’d be happy to direct him to.
“Okay, okay. No need to get snippy,” he remarks, digging in his pocket for a tip. He waves the five-dollar bill around showily, making sure everyone else in the diner gets a gander at his generosity before shoving it in the tip jar. “I was kind of hoping you and I could be friends. You from this town?”
“Why? Who wants to know?”
“America wants to know, sweetie.” His voice is gravelly, with a hint of East Coast. He takes a sip and raises his eyebrows, nodding at the cup that has finally passed muster. “Eh, what do you know? This isn’t half bad.”
“You should try it with almond milk and one less shot next time.” The suggestion just spills out of me, unbidden. I hold out a packet of raw sugar. I cannot help it. I’m a coffee witch. It’s a blessing and a curse. Particularly when I know people are ordering the wrong drink. Their whole day would go better if they’d just take my advice.
He eyes me skeptically. “You think I don’t know how I take my own coffee?” But he takes the sugar and tears it open with his teeth, spitting paper out on the floor.
“Anyway, sweetheart,” the man says, still eyeing me cannily, “I was hoping you could help me out.” He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out his cell phone, swipes it a couple of times, and turns it to face me. “You seen this guy around here lately?”
If only.
