Page 24 of Take It Till You Make It
I shake my head and laugh. “I doubt that. But I did have fun. So, thank you.”
That arrogant look is back on his face as he turns his attention to Sally. “Just you wait and see. Those pictures are going to sizzle.”
I don’t know about that, but as I stare at Sally, yet don’t actually see her, my body is flushed with heat from his words. Did Crispin Moore just call me hot? Now there’s a life goal I never realized I had.
Just when I’m finally paying attention to Sally, the photographer calls me over.
“Arabelle, let’s get you in here with Sally.”
“Oh.” They must want pictures of the sisters together. That’s why I’m still here. As I hop down from the chair, Crispin anchors it to the floor with a hand so it doesn’t tip forward. “Thanks.”
I’m surprised to have to step up onto a platform to join Sally on set. When did they bring this in? Assistants are racing around removing the props so that Sally and I are against a pure white backdrop. I see someone grab a heart off the wall, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the props to see what theme they chose for Sally.
The temperature on the set feels twenty degrees warmer than back at the chair, so I’m thankful when a fan starts to blow.
“Okay, I’ll need Arabelle in front of Sally. Angle your bodies so that your right shoulder is facing Crispin over there.”
The instructions make me look at him. He’s still standing next to my abandoned chair, hands in pockets, but the look in his eyes as he stares intently at me makes things tumble around inside me again. What is happening to me? This is the worst possible turn of events ever. I need to make this movie and then…
And then, what? Start a new school. Complete my senior year. Graduate. But then what?
“Arabelle, I need you to drop your shoulder.”
I blink my attention back to the photographer and refuse to think ahead to the big question mark ahead of me. Or the big question mark behind me.
I drop my shoulder and give him what I hope is the sexy look he’s hoping for. I can’t imagine Sally, behind me, having a sexy look. She’s so pure and innocent-looking. Does she have a steam setting?
We do some fun, happy shots, some angsty, moody shots. I actually really get into the role-playing part of the shoot. It feels like mini versions of the videos Dad and I used to film. Even though I don’t have lines, I’m portraying whatever character the photographer wants from me. I can do that in my sleep. And I like doing it with someone else. Sally and I laugh with each other when one of us gets the mood wrong or really, really right. I even see Crispin laughing along from the sidelines. It’s too bad I’m such a shrimp; I might enjoy modeling.
When the photographer has Crispin join us, the mood shifts. For me, at least. Since I’m so short, I’m usually the first in line or in front of them. When Crispin is behind me, I feel his warmth like I’m a thermometer on a summer day. We’re still asked to cycle through different moods for the camera, but I can’t seem to get the heat out of my gaze with him around. I’m overcome with the attraction that has sprung up within me, and it has my body angling toward him when it isn’t supposed to.
“Okay, I want to take a few pictures with Crispin and Arabelle together,” the photographer says.
The assistants all start paging through the sheets on their clipboards. One says, “We don’t have orders for that.”
“We’ll just keep the set white,” the photographer says. “I can’t let this go without capturing it, though.”
I have no idea what he means, but when Crispin steps up behind me and wraps his long arms around me on the photographer’s instructions, I’m there for it. His impossibly big hands cup over mine, and I practically melt into him.
The assistants have all stopped to watch since they have nothing to do for us. One of them breathes out and says, “Oh.”
The photographer grins, his camera shutter blinking furiously. “See?”
Our impromptu audience nods.
“Okay, Arabelle, turn to face Crispin.”
I hadn’t realized how snuggled into him I was until it feels like I have to dig my way out to straighten. Crispin’s right hand shifts to grab my left, and he twirls me around like we’re on a dance floor. I hear the intake of breaths as our audience reacts to the spontaneous move.
“Great, Crispin!” the photographer calls.
Crispin’s left arm winds around my waist, and he dips me backward, leaning over me with an intense look that has my insides rioting.
I feel an assistant pull the hair trapped between Crispin’s arm and my back so that it falls free.
“Excellent,” the photographer calls. “A little closer, Crispin.”
His arm tightens as he draws me up a bit while he also bends forward more. We are inches apart now, and I’ve stopped breathing. His eyes are molten chocolate, and I suddenly have a craving for hot fudge.
