I just nod, and he explains, “To save time, we’ll shoot in batches. For example, your hero against a brick wall looking hot in just jeans? That we can do outside, out back.” He gestures behind him. “We can do the motorcycle shots there, too. So one day, bam, I knock both those out.”
“Okay.” I think of him on the motorcycle and wonder how it would feel to ride behind him, my arms wrapped around his chest.
“Then there’s a set I broke down like this, look.” He gets up and sits down in the chair right next to mine, and pushes in closer so we can both bend over the printout. He smells fresh and woodsy, with a hint of citrus and a wisp of man, his own odor. I try to focus on his words. “The ones where I’m holding Annalise from behind with my hands on her breasts? That goes well with the scene of her in the lingerie where we’re kissing. So she’ll come here and we’ll do all that shit on a separate day.”
I nod, swallowing hard. The thought of his hands on Annalise’s breasts is not as appealing as him on the bike. I try to look casual. “That sounds great.”
He laughs. “Oh, it will be. Of course, you’ll need to be there, too.” For a split second I think maybe he means that he wants me naked alongside Annalise, and I picture his hands on my breasts, but he breaks in with, “Since you’re the author, you’ll need to be there to help direct. Lise and Chelle are cool with it—they both agree.”
“Oh.” I gather my thoughts. “But I mean, if I told you what the shot should sort of look like, I don’t presume—I mean, you should use your artistic license from there.”
“But I need to know how it looks in your head so I can match the book.” His voice is low, sensual. “I know you’re a bestseller, Abby. I want my pictures to be perfect. I want us to knock this out of the goddamn park.” There’s something else in his voice, something hungry, that note I didn’t hear at the club. It’s the first time I’m a hundred percent sure he wants this.
“We will. I’m positive.” Our eyes are locked.
Boston breaks the gaze first; he picks up his coffee cup and walks back to the studio, so I follow with my cup, careful not to spill. He gestures at his setup. “Do you like high key?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Oh. Yeah. Basically a picture that’s almost overexposed, where the whites are really white—very light. I think the ones of Annalise by herself, some of the faces, should be like that.” He gestures at the photo on the wall of her face, the one I admired earlier. “Like that one. See how the skin is creamy and clear, and the whole thing glows?”
I nod. “Gorgeous. Some full length, though, too, with that glow. Maybe her with one arm over her head, leaning against the wall, looking right at the camera?”
He sets down the coffee cup and flips open his laptop on a small work table adjacent to the studio. “C’mere, I’ll add that to my list.”
I stand beside him, then come in closer and duck my head down so I can see against the glare, putting my chin level with his head. He’s created an Excel spreadsheet entitled “Potential Shots for Abby’s Book” and there’s a master list of over one hundred poses, along with columns for details like lighting setup, props, Photoshop treatment, and more. It’s massive and intricate.
“Wow. This is really impressive. I didn’t know you put this much thought into it.” I’m blown away by the detail, and embarrassed about my thoughts from this morning. “It looks so—complex! This must have taken hours.”
My voice must betray my surprise. He turns his head to look at me, a sharp motion. “It did. I’m detail oriented, Abby.” His eyebrows are furled. “What did you think I was going to show you, a sketch on the back of a napkin?”
“Uh.” The truth is that I sort of did. “Noooo…” I extend the word, “but this is—more than I thought you’d do at this point. But I like it. I love it!”
“You know, I may not have a fancy college degree from Harvard like you, but I can get stuff done when I put my mind to it.” He pushes his rolling chair back and crosses his arms over his chest.
“No!” I protest, my eyebrows zinging up into my brow line, feeling a sick guilt in my stomach. Could he read my mind? “Boston, I just—we didn’t talk details yet, you know? Last night you were—I mean, you were flirty, which is fun, but. This is my life, my job, my salary. It’s important to me. I wasn’t sure yet if you were willing to put serious effort into this. You weren’t exactly professional.”
His scowl darkens. “Abby, you came to the club where I dance. Sexy. For drunk women who grind up on me and put money in my G-string. A little flirtation is pretty much par for the course there, okay? And as I recall, you flirted right back with me and asked me if I can, and I quote, bring it. I’m sorry if I came off a little too blue-collar for you. I’ll try to be more professional from now on. Classier.”
I bite my lip. I feel a little panicked, not sure how to get things back on even ground, and try to make my voice easy. “Boston. I’m sorry. I love your photography, and you have the perfect look for my book. I’m glad we’re working together. That you want to do this. Okay?”
His face softens. “This is a big deal to me, Abby. I think our partnership is going to be a big deal for both of us. I do take this seriously. I didn’t read your books; I’m not a big fiction reader. But I researched you online and saw what a big seller you are in the romance book world. And I know nobody has done this kind of thing before.”
His eyes are bright and earnest. I feel a mix of embarrassment and desire, and the feelings confuse me. I nod, then duck my head, my voice contrite. “So, um, will you show me what you have so far?”
For the rest of the morning we work through his list, item by item, changing some details, adding new posing ideas. I don’t ask to change much, though. It’s like he read my mind and put together the perfect list of ideas based on my rough emails. It’s amazing. Still, I pull up my book on my laptop and scroll through, making sure that there are enough shots outlined for each chapter.
He’s intense and focused, and I like seeing his powerful hands typing on his laptop keyboard. His fingers are long and tapered at the ends, with short blunt nails. His hands looks strong, sensual. As he enters some lighting reminders for himself, I daydream about how those fingers would feel on my skin. His hand was warm last night when he took mine, his grip firm. He’s so confident in his skin; I imagine that he’d be pure pleasure in the bedroom, full of even better moves than those he showed on stage. But he’s not being so flirty anymore, and I feel disappointed, even though I’m ecstatic that he’s actually into this project and smarter than I expected.
When we finally finish, he stands up and stretches, then crosses his arms over his chest. “So, Abby, you want to make it official? We’ll get a contract written up?”
I nod. “Let’s do it. I have a, um, friend who’s a lawyer. Would you be okay if I have him draft it? I’ll cover the cost. Well, actually, I’m pretty sure he’ll do it for free if I ask nicely.” I smile and swing one foot, thinking of Erik. I can still sweet-talk him into anything.
Boston frowns. “Abby, one thing I’ve learned as a businessman trying to make my way in the industry is that favors and work don’t mix. If your friend’s good, I trust your judgement, but I don’t want it for free. I’ll split the cost with you.”
I stand up, knocking the chair a bit, and grab at it. “Erik would never cause any issues. He’s a cool guy. I make decent—I can cover it, but he’s, really, he’ll do it for me for no charge.”
He stands his ground. “I pay my way, Abby. We’re partners now, so you do, too.”
“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.” I hear my tone sharpen a bit.
His voice stays even. “I’ve run into a lot of egos and weird situations in the modeling and photography world. It’s better for us to do things straight up. Besides. If this book is going to be the bestseller we both think it is, we can cover the upfront cost of a simple legal contract, yeah?”
I nod. “Fine,” I say, then feel compelled to add,
“Authors do favors for each other all the time. Like, I host someone on my blog and then she writes me a review. I help tweet about someone’s release, and she recommends me to her fans on her Facebook page.”
He gives me a look. “A contract from a lawyer friend is a hard cash favor. I don’t take handouts.”
I shrug, put my hands up. “We’ll pay for it. Want me to talk to him today to get the draft started and we can meet later this week to sign?”
He nods. “Do it. I’ll get Chelle to start with some of the solo shots of me. I have a bunch of jobs this week but she can do the wall shots, the pushups, the ones of me in the shower.”
My mind shoots to the shower, imagining his body with water droplets, how nice he’d look slick and wet. I try to focus. “Great. And of course I’ll continue working on the book.” I think about my home office and remember Marr, and the way she’s redoing her entire house next door to me. I wince.
I glance at his desk, run my fingers over the wood. “I love your setup. That window has the best lighting and side garden is so pretty… and quiet. Marr is having renovating done and the workers are so loud. All day with the power saws and the grinders. I can’t focus. I need some background chatter, but not the kind that gives me a migraine and shakes my floor. I could get so much work done here.”
“Why don’t you?”
“What?” My heart races.
He steps closer, his voice intense. “You can work here, Abby. A little background noise with my models and work, but no drills. And we’ll be close, and that’s good for the project. You can coach me on shots. And if I have a good photo idea, maybe you could write it into your story. What do you say?”
What do I say? Working with him this closely is unnecessary. But the truth is I want to be near him all day, watching him work, watching his face, his arms, hearing his voice. Even if it goes nowhere like that, it sounds… fun. Exciting. And good for my sexy-times writing, for the reason I mentioned earlier (my authorial secret writing weapon of delayed gratification.) And it would be way better than the coffee shop or the taco place with free Wi-Fi on the corner.
I swallow. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“Good.” He smiles. “So from now until we finish, this space is yours.” He waves his arm toward the window desk. “I’ll get rid of all this shit so you can set it up the way you want.”
“I don’t need a lot of room,” I protest. “Just space for my laptop and mouse. And my Starbucks.”
“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “You’re not bringin’ that crap into my house. I’ll make your coffee, Abby.” His voice rolls over me like a caress, and I bite my lip.
“Okay. Then maybe I can bring breakfast.” I stop. “Uh, what do you eat in the morning? Leeks and turnips, or something? Celery?”
He laughs. “Protein. Five or six scrambled eggs with veggies. I cook my own in organic butter or coconut oil. I’ll teach you about Paleo eating, Abs. Get you fit and healthy. Good changes.”
I cross my arms. “I eat fine, okay? I don’t need to change anything.” I blink hard at the way my eyes swell with crazy disappointed tears, forcing them back.
His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—I was just, you know, I know a lot about healthy eating and what’s good for the heart and cholesterol and blood pressure. I eat this way because it works, you know? Because it’s best for the body. I was just sayin’ what I say to friends who ask me to coach them on fitness. Sorry. But I wasn’t trying to say anything about—” He breaks off. He’s looking at me now, assessing, a coach looking at a recruit, I think, and I feel horrible.
I swallow. A ray of sun comes through that large window and hits a picture of a female model like a spotlight, and her perfect curves and slender legs and flat stomach gleam. I grab my laptop bag. “I’ll contact Erik to start the contract. And then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” My voice is a little stiff. What the hell was I doing, fantasizing about him this whole time? He dates women who grace the covers of magazines, women who turn heads just by walking into the grocery store.
“Yeah, okay.”
I fight back tears, which is ridiculous, because he didn’t do anything except make some offhand comment. “See you tomorrow,” I say, attempting to inject a note of cheerful bonhomie into my voice.
“See you,” he replies, his expression serious, and I get into my car and do a brisk wave. As I drive off, my face is hot and I feel waves of unhappiness swelling around me. Why, oh, why wasn’t I born with a long, lean frame and waving blond hair? Why don’t I have the willpower to hit the gym every day, twice a day, three times if necessary until I look like utter supermodel perfection? Why am I so addicted to junk food? What’s wrong with me?
I’m not going to cry about this, because it’s a waste of time, but I spend my entire ride home agonizing over my thighs and stomach and wondering if my gym membership is still active or not, and how quickly I could lose ten pounds.
Chapter Three
Erik grabs me and gives me a big hug. “Abby! It’s good to see you.”
I smile and push my chin into his shoulder, and a wave of nostalgia flows past before winking out. His hair, his cologne, the dryer sheets he uses: I remember this. I stay in his embrace for just an extra second before pulling back to look at him. “New suit?”
“Yes, I redid my fall wardrobe using the latest copy of Vogue.” He smirks at me. I used to tease him and call him a metrosexual because he dresses so well. “So you’re working with models, now? Maybe I should hang around and learn some style tips.”
I punch his arm. “You and me both.” I sigh. His sandy brown hair is getting long; he needs a trim. I notice that he looks as fit as ever, and his green eyes have that usual sparkle.
He gives me an expressive look. “You’re not back on that.” Erik is well-acquainted with my body-image issues and always did his best to assuage them, but for some reason—even though I know his heart was in the right place—it never worked. Probably because it’s something I have to do for myself.
I laugh and perch on the edge of his desk, cross my legs, and swing the top one. “You just wait until you meet some of them. You’ll see what I mean. But yeah, I’m really excited about this project. Nobody has done this in the romance novel world, Erik, ever.” Like always, my confidence surges back when I think about my work, my craft, my creativity. I smile at him, excited. “I think it’s going to be such a huge hit.”
“So I’ll look for your cover on a billboard near me soon,” he suggests, then leans back on the desk next to me and hands me a thick printout. “Take a look at what I drafted up. I got all the points you wanted, and put in all the information about how you’ll split the money and royalties in the future from other licensing opportunities as they arise. And we can always amend later.”
I hear Boston’s voice from beyond the half-open door. “Um, hi. I’m Parker Minelli, here to see Erik Nyland?” His voice is uncertain, and Erik’s admin responds, “Yes, of course, they’re expecting you, go right in.”
Boston comes in and I catch my breath. He’s in a suit!—he dressed up for this. It’s cute and sort of embarrassing to me that he felt he needed to dress up to see Erik. Business casual would have been fine! I mean, it’s not like we live in the 1900s or high society or something. But Boston is looking very fine, so I focus on that. The white of his shirt is crisp against his dark suit and hair, and once again I’m taken aback at how very handsome he is.
Boston looks at me on the desk, Erik next to me, and his gaze hardens. He strides up to Erik and sticks out his hand. “I’m Parker Minelli. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Erik stands up and gives over his hand. “Likewise. I’m glad to work with you and Abby. I have the rev zero contract drafted up for your approval. Let’s all sit at my conference table,” he gestures to the side of the room where a round table is surrounded by padded chairs, “and I’ll go through it with you both.”
Boston rotates his shoulder and adjusts his sleeve, then sits down. He glances
at me. “So we just, are we goin’ to read the whole thing right here?” His gaze moves, uncertain, to the stack of legal-sized printouts.
Erik answers, “I’ll go through it page by page, but we don’t need to read all the fine print. I’ll tell you everything that’s included, and you let me know if it matches what you want.”
Boston nods. He’s sitting upright, his back straight, tapping the fingers of his left hand on the tabletop. But as Erik starts to detail the line items, his body relaxes and he leans in, adding comments. I let my mind drift, thinking about how well the suit fits him. Erik is always stylish, cute, but Boston is—hot. Erik is suave and trendy, Boston is hard-edged and gritty and oozes sexuality. I find myself tilting in my seat to lean just a little bit closer to Boston, and right myself with embarrassment. I’m such a dork.
Oh. They’re waiting for me to say something. “Abby? ” Erik raises his eyebrows, taps a passage with his silver pen.
“Um, say it again?” I flush, scanning the text.
“Parker suggested adding a section about payments for Annalise O’Reilly and Chelle Lambeau, since they’re working with you, too. I agree that it makes sense to include them upfront, instead of trying to work out a payment in a separate contract.”
Boston adds, “I’m covering the cost of Annalise’s modeling fee, and Chelle’s salary, but we need to add in that they won’t get royalties from future sales like you and I will.”
“Yes.” Why didn’t I think of that? I’m such an amateur when it comes to things like contracts. But that’s why we came to Erik, right?
“So we’ll need to review with Annalise and Chelle then, and once all of you sign it, it will be official.” Erik caps his pens and picks up the contract. “I’ll edit and get this back to you soon. Sound okay?”
I stand up and glance around the room as my stomach rumbles. “It’s great. Hey, I only had coffee this morning and I need a pick-me-up. Do you still keep snacks around?”
Boston Page 3