by Tamara Lush
“Oh, you’ll do quite well,” says Nina Michaels, her eyes lingering on my bicep. “Do you have any problem taking your shirt off?”
“Ah, well…” I chuckle and run a hand through my hair. “Of all the things I thought I’d do on a late Sunday afternoon, a shirtless photo shoot with a famous Miami fashion photographer was not among them. But, sure. Why not?”
Nina is short, probably around sixty, and Asian. She has a mischievous smile and a twinkle in her eyes, and her entire vibe makes me grin.
“What have you got in mind, exactly?” I ask. I’m okay with taking off my shirt in public. Anything more… well, we’ll see.
Over coffee this morning, I’d looked up some of Nina’s photography. It ranged from classic celebrity portraits to some risqué, nude, black and whites. I’m guessing the Paradise Beach Tourism Board wants more of the former, but after being in this place for a couple of weeks — and after Nina’s question — who knows?
Paradise Beach: Things are Different Here. Hey, that’s a new marketing slogan for the Tourism Board…
“Once the other model gets here, I was thinking of some shots by those palm trees over there”—she points in the direction of the nearby beach—“and perhaps in the water. I have props for a picnic. We also might go back to my place because it has some beautiful views from the living room. We’ll see. I own a vacation home on the other end of the island.” She waves in the direction of her assistant, a young woman who is arranging and pawing through plastic boxes in a giant SUV.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Glad you’re an easygoing type.”
“Wouldn’t you have to be if you applied to be photographed by a stranger with another stranger?”
“You’d be surprised.” She laughs heartily and her eyes take another sweep down my body, not in a lecherous way, but as if she’s assessing my look.
I tilt my head down to look at my black T-shirt, jeans, and leather flip-flops. “Did I dress okay? The email instructions didn’t give any guidance on what to wear.”
“You’re fine. You’re wearing almost exactly what Brad Pitt wore when I shot him in ‘97 on South Beach.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I think you’re wearing it better, though.” She adjusts her glasses and clicks the key fob of her SUV.
Well, hell. I grin and take off my shades.
The Florida sun weakens as it races toward the horizon. We’re about an hour from sunset, and we’re standing in the parking lot by Nina’s SUV, waiting for the other person to arrive. The other model. Even thinking that is kind of hilarious. All of this is Froot Loops, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m not a model kind of guy. I’m a divorced, single dad of a ten-year-old girl. A guy who’s starting over and pushing forty.
Nina opens the back of her SUV then opens a messenger bag. She extracts a black folder. “You’re Matthew… the hot dog stand owner?”
“I’m Matthew, but I don’t own a hot dog stand.”
“Okay. Wait. That’s tomorrow’s shoot. You’re the…” She shuffles through the papers. “Pilot? Doctor? Librarian? Several people applied and I think my assistant’s mixed them up. Dammit.”
“Pilot. That’s me.” I spot my name on a printed email and point to the paper.
She looks up, tilting her head. “Matthew Mancini. Commercial pilot?”
“Used to be. Well, still am. I’m from Fort Lauderdale. Took a buyout from Delta, and am in the process of relocating here to Paradise and opening a helicopter tour business. My brother, well, half-brother, saw your flyer in a local restaurant and thought I might be a good fit. So, I took the plunge and applied.”
Might be the best idea Chad’s ever had. Or the only idea. I’d actually gone along with his suggestion because that’s what I’m trying to do these days with him and my mom. Go along. Get along. After so many years of family dysfunction, why not… especially since Chad and Mom claim to know this island so well.
And so, I’d sent a recent photo, one my ten-year-old had snapped on the beach while I was wearing Ray Bans and a smile. My daughter, Chloe, picked it out of several that she had taken — kids these days are like freaking modeling scouts — saying that I didn’t look “too ridiculous for an old guy.”
Yeah, Chloe has a way with words.
Nina shuts the folder and studies me. Aw, hell. Should I have admitted that I’m just here for the promo?
“So, your brother thought you should do this to somehow promote your new business?”
I give her a sheepish smile. “Caught me. Kind of, yeah. But I thought it would be cool, too. I’m trying to say yes to new things. I’m in a new chapter in life.”
That’s an understatement.
She grins. “That’s how it starts with lots of my subjects on these so-called stranger photo shoots. I’ve done them all over the country. People think they’re going to use this as their own personal branding session. And then it turns into something way more. You’ll see. But yeah, more people should say yes to new adventures.”
Huh. I wonder what she means by something way more.
She stands on her tiptoes — she’s wearing pink Birkenstock sandals, khaki shorts, and a white button down — and peers over my shoulder, waving her hand in the air.
“Oh, I think that’s our other person. Hey! Over here!”
I turn to see a woman coming toward us.
Nina claps her hands. “Natalia, right?”
The woman struts toward us as if she’s on a Milan catwalk. She’s wearing a floofy, pink dress that has a deep V neckline and no sleeves. Damn, the woman must work out because I spot a nice line of muscle on her shoulders and arms. There’s an elaborate silver and pink necklace around her neck, practically pointing my line of sight to her breasts. I paste on a smile and look down, taking in her long, tan legs.
Black boots? In early September on a beach in Florida? Okay.
My gaze snaps back up to her eyes. Blue, like a perfect sky on a clear day.
“Yeah, I’m Natalia,” the woman responds. “You must be Nina Michaels. I love your work. I actually saw your show last year at Art Basel in Miami.”
The two women shake hands and briefly discuss the art scene in Miami. I don’t mind that I’m being ignored, because it gives me more time to stare at this unusual woman who’s showed up in what looks like a crinkled, pink wedding dress and combat boots. Thing is, she wears the whole ensemble perfectly. It makes her look like some sexy, dystopian warrior bride.
Color me intrigued.
Her hair’s long, wavy, and honey blonde. Wild, like she might not have brushed it all the way. But again, it somehow goes with the overall look. I’d say she’s younger than me by, what, six or seven years? She looks edgy and cool, and I’m over here like the middle-aged dude that I am.
“Natalia, this is Matt, the man you’ll be paired with. He’s a pilot. Do you go by Matt or Matthew?” Nina turns to me.
At the mention of my name, I snap to attention. “Hi there. I’ll respond to either.”
I hold out my hand and the woman steps forward and clasps my palm with a firm grip. “Hey,” she replies, her voice low and smoky.
“Nat and Matt, I like that,” Nina says.
Natalia smiles while looking me in the eyes. For a second, I’m not sure what to say. The way the sunlight makes her hair look like spun gold, the fantastical dress, her long, dark lashes framing those blue eyes — it’s like I’m in the presence of something rare and fleeting.
And captivatingly gorgeous.
“Natalia,” I say. “It’s really good to meet you.”
The three of us pause for a beat while Natalia and I shake hands.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this, a photo shoot with a stranger,” I add.
“Perfect strangers,” she murmurs, and we drop hands.
“That’s the name of the campaign, right?” I ask
I feel Nina’s hand on my arm. She’s also touching Natalia. “I don’t like the subjects to have too much small talk
before. Don’t want you getting to know each other at all, really, because I want the chemistry to unfold on camera. Make sense?”
We both nod.
“Good. Natalia, I love that vintage wagon you drove up in. Is that from the 1950s? Can we do some shots near it?”
Interesting. I pay attention to cars and planes and vehicles of all types, and I didn’t even see the car. All I saw was her. Now that I glance around the parking lot, I spot a perfectly restored, aqua, chrome and wood paneled vehicle, straight out of a 1950s beach blanket bingo kind of movie.
“Sweet ride,” I say.
“Thanks. We can use it. It’s an old Mercury. My dad’s. My car’s in the shop…oh, sorry, no personal details.” She makes a zip motion across her pretty, pink lips.
“No problem.” Nina steers us in the direction of the car. “I want you two to kind of lean against the side of the car. The passenger side.”
Feeling slightly foolish, I take my place near the door. Nina’s assistant approaches, cameras hanging off her neck and shoulders. She hands one to Nina.
“Okay, Natalia, move a little closer to him. Okay, closer. Now angle your bodies toward each other. Natalia’s left shoulder should almost touch Matthew’s right shoulder, so your bodies form a V. Like that. Perfect. Now I’m going to take some photos while you chat a bit. Do what feels natural.”
She backs up and points the camera at us. Even though it’s not that hot, I feel pinpricks of sweat on the back of my neck.
I shift my eyes and get an eyeful of Natalia, who’s grinning.
“You don’t feel awkward?” I ask.
“Maybe a little, but that’s part of this, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“That she’s going to capture us feeling awkward at first. Then we’re going to get more comfortable with each other. That’s when the magic photos will probably happen, right?”
I can’t stop looking at her mouth. I grin. “You seem pretty sure that magic will happen.”
She licks her lips, and now her eyes drift to my mouth. My face grows warm. The click of Nina’s camera shutter is the only thing I can hear, other than a few seagull cries.
“I believe in magic,” she says, then busts out laughing, doubling over. Nina’s camera sounds like it’s about to break, it’s clicking so hard.
I can’t help but laugh. “Really cheesy.”
Natalia straightens, and I stare into those beautiful, blue eyes.
“Lemme have the Nikon. And you two, Matt and Nat. Don’t hesitate to touch each other if you want,” Nina hollers.
We’re staring at each other, unblinking. The breeze blows a lock of her blonde hair across her face.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“Mind what?” Natalia inches closer to me.
“If I touch you? I know Nina wants this to be spontaneous, but I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
“Trust me, I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable. I’m a pretty vocal person.”
Jesus, this woman’s like a magnet. I move a millimeter closer. “I like vocal.”
Her hand grasps a layer of the fabric dress and she rolls the jagged hem between her fingers. “The same goes for you, okay? If I do anything that makes you feel weird, tell me.”
“You got it.”
I lift my hand and the sounds of Nina’s camera fade. With my fingers, I slowly brush Natalia’s hair out of her face. Her lock is silky, and I wind it around my index and middle fingers.
“You have beautiful hair.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I tuck the lock behind her ear, pausing to stroke her cheekbone with my thumb. Holy shit, what am I doing? It’s so weird, since I literally just met this woman.
But it feels so right.
A flush of pink creeps across Natalia’s cheeks. Nina leaps closer, crouching and snapping away.
“Perfect, you two. Just perfect. Love it. Keep it up,” she cries.
Natalia looks deep into my eyes and that space inside my chest — which has been frozen for so long — softens into something molten and warm and happy.
Something way more is happening here, and I’m going to say yes to every minute of it.
Chapter Three
NATALIA
Well. This is an unexpected surprise. Epic, indeed.
I honestly thought that I’d be paired with a beach bro. Or a beach babe. I was prepared for a man or a woman, and wouldn’t have minded either. I figured it might be one of the lifeguards who supervise the public beach because they’re all beautiful.
Or possibly Beau, the 65-year-old who gives windsurfing lessons at North Beach on Wednesdays. Opposites and all that. I know he applied for this gig.
I didn’t expect to be canoodling with a legit beefcake. Didn’t expect him to have eyes the color of liquid silver or a mop of unruly, dark hair or that sexy stubble on his jaw. Didn’t expect him to have shoulders like a linebacker.
Leilani is going to squeal at the top of her mermaid lungs when I tell her about this. Matthew. Matt. Mancandy.
Mattcandy.
“Your hair’s beautiful, too. Can I touch it?” I coo. Why am I cooing? I never coo. Usually, I growl. More importantly, why am I sweating buckets? I mean, it is Florida in September, and I am swaddled in miles of pink tulle. Could that be the reason?
Or is it because I’m close to him?
“Sure can. You’re letting me play with yours, so you can play with mine.” He sweeps more hair off of my sticky forehead.
Oh, I’ll definitely play with yours, sexy man. Dear God, he smells like Irish Spring soap.
While licking my lips, I ruffle his hair with my fingers. It’s dark, almost jet-black, and soft. Tuggable.
“I have some greys coming in.” He lets out a low chuckle. It’s true, he does. And it’s freaking hot.
Hello, Daddy Matt.
I tilt my head. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine. You?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Hmm.” His grin is adorable.
My fingers delve deeper in his hair, a slow comb and then a soft tug. His lips part and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Which is insane because we’ve known each other for five seconds — all of which have been captured on film — and I’m ready to do a tongue tango with a total stranger. Okay, this isn’t that out of character for me; I’m known as the wildest of the Hastings family. The quirky one.
Though that reputation is more for my solo travel, my hobbies, and my snarky attitude. Not for my approach to men.
I never take risks with men. Well, haven’t in a long time.
Still, this is edging toward insanity, right? Maybe this instant lust is because I haven’t been on a date this entire year. Between running the resort and creating jewelry, I haven’t had time.
And the Paradise Beach dating pool seems to be getting more and more shallow with each passing year. Matt here has raised the water level by about ten feet.
“Hmm, is thirty-two too young?” I ask.
“Not too young at all.”
“Do you like younger women?”
He tilts his head and squints. “Not usually. If you’re asking whether I’m one of those guys who only wants a twenty-year-old, the answer is no. I like women. Not girls.” He winks.
Yasss. I haven’t flirted like this in years. Maybe this photographer’s onto something — this is more exciting than any stupid dating app. It’s like an arranged relationship with the added pressure of sucking in one’s gut to look good in photos.
While sucking in said gut, I flutter my eyelashes and lean closer. So, I probably look like I’m a little constipated, but from his grin, he doesn’t seem to notice. I’m assuming Nina wants us to kiss. Since this is a totally controlled environment, what could go wrong?
What will his lips feel like? They look soft. A faint hum vibrates in my throat. He inhales sharply.
“Okay, Matt and Nat! That’s enough here by the car. Let’s get to t
he beach for the picnic.”
Nina’s loud voice startles me into wide-eyed shock, and somehow, I lose my footing. Jesus, it’s not like I’m in heels. I’m wearing boots. I practically topple into Matthew’s chest and he catches me by the arms.
“Uh, sorry.” I straighten my spine and regain my footing. “I just learned to walk.”
He laughs as we follow Nina to the sand. It’s a nervous laugh, our chemistry and spell broken. Crap.
Nina’s assistant is arranging a wicker picnic basket on a massive, round, black-and-white checkered beach blanket, and she steps aside. Nina waves us toward the blanket. “Have at it. There’s champagne and other stuff in the basket. Just ignore me. Oh, and hold hands while you walk to the blanket.”
I glance at Matthew and he cocks an eyebrow. There’s something about him that’s a little rakish, yet he still seems very down-to-earth. It’s endearing. He extends his arm, seeking my hand.
With my ridiculous dress flapping around my bare legs, I slip my hand into his. He takes it confidently and threads his fingers through mine. The sun is about a half-hour from setting and the entire beach is bathed in a lazy, soft, orange glow.
“You have a little hand,” he says, squeezing mine. “And little feet. Even in combat boots.”
“You like my fashion choice? I thought the boots went well with my dress. Well, it’s not my dress. It’s my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s dress. She made me wear it.”
“She made you, did she? So, you don’t normally look like a dystopian princess?”
We’re at the beach blanket now, and I let go of his hand and plop down. “Nope. I’m normally much more sedate. Today seemed to call for theatrics, though. Don’t you think?”
My hands go to my feet, ready to untie my boots. He sinks to his knees onto the blanket.
“Excellent choice. Now, for the benefit of the camera, may I…” He reaches for the laces and I pull my hands away.
“Sure,” I shrug, leaning back on my hands.
Nina clicks away as he carefully unties my black boots, setting one aside, then the other.
“Nice socks. Oh, they have words on them. What do they say?” He takes my foot into his big hands and gently turns it. His skin is a wonderful bronze-olive, and I wonder if he’s Italian — he has a similar complexion to my nonno on Ma’s side, who was from Sicily.