Page 26 of Not Part of the Plan
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emma woke in the middle of the night. But this time, it wasn’t dreams of a certain smoldery photographer who had walked her to her car at two o’clock in the morning and brushed her hair back from her face before kissing her lightly on the cheek that left her skin coated in sweat. It was much, much worse.
She barely made it into her broom closet-sized bathroom before losing the contents of her stomach in a spectacular, gut-wrenching fashion.
Long minutes later, when she could stand, Emma dragged her sweaty, shaky self back to her disheveled bed. Her head pounded as if a jackhammer had taken up residence in her skull, and the rest of her body ached down to the bones.
She was dying. It was the only answer that made any sense. She had moments left on this earth because her own immune system was trying to murder her. She couldn’t remember if any of the kids had been pukey this week. Who could keep up with so many of them? Emma lulled her head to the side and peered blearily at the clock on her nightstand.
Maybe this would be just a quick bug, and she’d bounce back in the morning. She could shake this and be back on her feet for work. The power of positive thinking.
Her stomach lurched. “Oh, God,” Emma whimpered.
She inhaled with the desperation of a deep-sea diver, willing away the nausea. “I’ve got this,” she whispered. “Piece of—”
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Niko kicked back at the conference table in Thrive’s open office and waited while Summer finished up a video chat with a freelancer. Sunlight slashed through the windows at the far end of the open space. She added a few tasteful, colorful accents since the last time he’d visited. The white walls and light pine flooring were warmed with touches of green from two plush arm chairs and stylish artwork that adorned the ship lap wall. Candles and knickknacks and framed photos breathed more life into the office.
Barely a year old, his friend’s online magazine was, well,thriving. After years slaving for a high fashion rag, Summer had shifted her focus to tell the stories of real men and women in a lifestyle site geared toward health-conscious readers. It was a disruption to the system and still a bitter pill to swallow for her former boss, Katherine, who hated to see her ex-prodigy succeed on her own. Niko made sure to mention how well Summer was doing every time he did a shoot forIndulgence,knowing full well word would get back to the impeccably dressed Katherine behind her glass desk.
While Summer discussed the series on heart rate monitors with the writer, Niko examined the photos on the walls. He’d shot some of them. The one of Gia upside down in wheel pose had been part of the yoga series. He got up to study it closer. And found what he was looking for. The spark.
Every model had that spark of life in them, and he made it his mission to tease it out of them.It was like catching a glimpse of someone’s soul, he thought. And it was what had been missing lately. Without that spark, that soul, a picture was just a picture. It didn’t tell a story or provide a window into a life.
He wondered if he’d be able to find the spark in the bride and groom and do Phoebe and Franklin—and their family, one member in particular—justice if he said yes. He’d felt a low-level anxiety ever since Emma had broached the idea. He didn’twantto do it, didn’t want to fail. But it was practically impossible to say no when she looked at him with those sea goddess eyes alight with excitement.
God, he had it bad for her.It made him restless, constantly thinking of her. At night, he’d lay on his bed, hands stacked under his head and staring up at the ceiling as he thought about her smile, her eyes, that incredible body.
Niko turned his back on the photo and his problems. The basket of yarn balls on the table caught his eye, and he plucked up one the color of ripe grapes on the vine. He tossed it in Gia’s direction when she charged up the stairs and made a beeline for her workstation.
She stuck her tongue out at him and chucked the yarn back at him. He lobbed another one in her direction.
Summer disconnected and clapped. “Locked down September’s week one feature!”
She and Gia raised their hands for an air high five.
“Nerds,” Niko smirked. “What’s with the yarn? You take up knitting in your spare time?”
“It’s a teaser for the Blue Moon blog. The Annual Knit Off is coming up,” Summer said.
“When did you start a Blue Moon blog?” he asked.
“Readers are fascinated by Woodstock Jr.,” Gia explained. “Thrive is boosting tourism here. Eden at the B&B says she’s booked solid through summer,” she said proudly.
“Plus, it gives us more content for the site, and we can use local advertisers on the blog posts,” Summer said, all business.
“Moving on to the Knit Off?”
“Apparently every spring, knitters from miles around congregate in One Love Park on the day of the Farmers Market Festival to race knit. The first knitter to hit ten feet of scarf or whatever the predetermined size is wins something weird,” Summer filled him in.
“I think it’s a year’s supply of wine from Blue Moon Vineyards,” Gia piped up.
“That’s better than last year’s prize,” Summer smirked. “I believe Donna June Macomber walked away with a lifetime supply of organic fish bait.”
Niko laced his fingers behind his head. “Okay, I know you two live here, and so you’ve probably been indoctrinated, but I’ve still gotta ask. Do you think this place is weird?”
“Oh, totally,” Summer snorted.
