Beth stands beside him, fingers playing in her hair, and waits for him to hang up. Once he does, she extends her hand. “Domenic, good to see you again.”
“Beth.” He accepts her handshake and pushes away from the wall.
“This is the photographer from Atlanta I told you about.” Beth beckons me over. “Kate Miller.”
Hauling in a breath, I stride across the room, hoping confidence shows on my face even if it doesn’t resonate in my churning stomach. I offer a handshake as well. “Good to meet you.”
Domenic’s gaze, all emerald fire that scorches in its assessment, rakes me from head to toe. He takes my hand for a grand total of three seconds, if that. But a crazy bolt of electricity shoots from my palm all the way up my arm and into my lungs before he lets go.
“I assume Beth gave you the rundown about the shoot.” He pockets his cell and ambles to the desktop computer. His fingers clatter over the keys for a moment, then the printer hums to life.
Beth nudges me forward.
“The basic details, yeah,” I say, taking a few halting steps.
Domenic straightens and plucks a sheet of paper off the printer. He holds it out, barely glancing up from the monitor. “The itinerary for the next couple days. Travel, setting up the shoot in Rome. That sort of stuff.”
I take the paper and look it over. “Will I have time to meet the rest of the team before we fly out tomorrow?”
“We’re all meeting at breakfast in the morning before we head to the airport.” One finger reaches over the top of the paper to tap the first item on the itinerary. “Says that right here.”
Stifling a grumble, I narrow my eyes at him. “I meant today.”
Beth’s fingertip jabs between my shoulder blades, making me jump.
“You might run across a couple people coming in and out of here while we get equipment packed up,” he says, turning his attention back to the computer. “We’ve already had a preflight meeting.”
So I’m already behind the eight ball. How am I supposed to acclimate to the team if my first chance to meet them will be at five in the morning, when everyone’s still half-asleep? My lips tighten into a start of a scowl, sharp words of irritation boiling to the tip of my tongue.
But Beth steps up beside me and sets a calming hand on the back of my arm. “I’m sure somebody will be willing to catch Kate up on what to expect.”
Domenic deigns to look at her. “I’ll see if Joe’s willing to buddy up with her during the flight and go over everything.” His gaze slides to mine. “If that’ll work for you.”
“I’m sure a trans-Atlantic flight will be more than enough time.” I drag my focus to the itinerary, taking pains to carefully fold the printout in half with all the edges and corners matched. “I’d prefer to keep my personal equipment with me in my carry-on.”
“We chartered a flight,” he explains, “so all our equipment will be secure. But if it makes you feel better to babysit your favorite camera, that’s your call.” He stoops to the computer again, clicking around with the mouse.
“I wouldn’t call it babysitting so much as protecting my livelihood.”
He lifts one eyebrow, but doesn’t pull his attention from the computer. “Every member of the team has the same livelihood as you. But again, your call.”
Heat fills my face, steam practically puffing from my ears. A retort hovers, but another jab from Beth keeps me from letting it escape. Instead, I take another deep breath, hold it for a count of ten, then slowly exhale. “Will you need me for anything before tomorrow?”
“Nope.” He still doesn’t look up. “Just make sure you have all your travel documents in order. Last thing we need is to get hung up in customs when we get to Italy.”
Beth grabs my arm, her grip a warning to keep the sharp side of my tongue under wraps. Domenic reaches to one side with his foot, pulling a nearby chair up to the table. As he settles into it, he rests his left elbow on the table and props his chin in his palm. A slight crease appears between his eyebrows as a look of total concentration masks his face. I recognize it, as it’s an expression I often wear myself when working on a project.
I let Beth pull me from the room, but once the doors close behind us, I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore. “Is he for real? He’s such a big shot, he doesn’t even have time to help a new team member get acclimated?”
Beth shushes me, casting a glance at the conference room doors. “I told you, Kate. You need to watch your mouth and your attitude. Domenic’s one of the fastest rising stars in the artistic and fashion photography world. He can practically write his own checks from his clients. He’s damn good at what he does.”
“And clearly knows it,” I interject.
She swings to face me when we reach the elevators. “But you’re damn good at what you do, too. Domenic just doesn’t know that yet, and you’ll have to prove it to him, pronto.”
We stare at each other for a few minutes while we wait for the elevator doors to open. Some of the fire leaches out of my belly. The warning in Beth’s eyes just barely covers the concern shining there as well.
“I can do this,” I tell her.
Maybe I’m trying to convince myself, too.
She nods. “I know. That’s why I emailed you about it.” She steps into the elevator and hits a button. “I have to get back to the office. Get in touch if you have any problems while you’re over there. And we’ll plan to have dinner when you get back.”
The doors start sliding shut. I give her two thumbs-up, then hit the call button again and wait for a second elevator car that will take me to my floor.
Chapter 4
Turbulence
A few suited businessmen are scattered across the hotel’s continental breakfast area, sipping from mugs of coffee while scanning copies of the New York Times. Domenic’s team of seven—eight, now, including me—push several smaller tables together and gather for a debriefing session while we eat. Everyone remains quiet as they munch on bagels, stir sugar into cups, or thumb through news apps on their phones between bites of scrambled eggs and sausage. At the head of the impromptu table, Domenic leans back in his chair, surveying the members of his team and chewing thoughtfully on spoonfuls of muesli and yogurt, waiting for everyone to finish before launching into the agenda on the table before him.
In the relative calm, I study each of the team members in turn. Not counting our arrogant Fearless Leader, there are three men and three women. Since no one has bothered to introduce themselves so far, I attach temporary nicknames to everyone as I take their measure.
To my left, absorbed in something on his smartphone, sits Glasses. Thin, almost bony about the shoulders and wrists, with a thick mop of dark brown hair and eyes to match. He gave me a short nod before sitting down earlier, the only greeting anyone has deigned to give me this morning. I estimate him in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He could be friendly, but it’s hard to tell. A thin gold band marks his left ring finger. The life of an international photographer must be hard on a marriage.
Stripes, a definite early twenty-something, sprawls in the chair beside Glasses. Her blond hair, streaked with neon blue and green highlights, is wound around her head in an elaborate, yet deliberately messy, arrangement of narrow braids. A diamond stud graces her right nostril, and an assortment of hoops in varying sizes ring each earlobe. Lipstick in a dark maroon emphasizes her perpetual frown, though the way she clings to her coffee cup makes me wonder if the early hour accounts for her grumpy mood.
The two guys filling the space at the foot of the table, absorbed in devouring every form of protein on the breakfast buffet, are both in their mid-twenties. They look so much alike, they have to be related somehow. I christen them Short and Stout, in homage to their stature as well as the way they guzzle tea instead of coffee. Both wear baseball caps backward ove
r short blond hair, and their upper torsos and arms bulge with muscles beneath black T-shirts. My guess is they handle the heavy lifting of equipment, because I can’t envision either of them managing more delicate work behind the camera.
Across from me is a tall, striking African American woman with flawless skin; her acrylic nail-tips adorned with airbrushed designs and tiny rhinestones. Even at this early hour, her hair is perfectly flat-ironed, her impeccable makeup accentuating the curves and lines of her features. Miss Model is the sort I’d expect to see in front of the camera, not behind it. Her designer clothing choices point to a keen fashion sense, so my guess is she has some role in coordinating the stylists and wardrobe masters we’ll work with in Rome. Her expression remains one of detachment as she sips her coffee, eyes trained to the muted flat screen TV above the breakfast area’s fireplace, where the morning’s national news scrolls down the display in the jolting dialog of closed captioning.
Next to Miss Model is Shades, a petite woman in her late twenties who hides most of her face behind a pair of over-sized shield sunglasses. Her hair, a thick mane dyed with so many hues ranging from platinum blond to black it’s impossible to determine her natural color, is twisted back in a low, messy bun at the nape of her neck. She leans back in her chair, hands shoved into the pocket of her Juicy Couture hoodie, chewing the last bite of her poppy seed bagel. She could be staring at me, at her empty plate, or at Domenic to her right, but the sunglasses make it impossible to know.
A shiver shakes my frame. Everyone at the table has a place and a purpose on Domenic’s team. Even twenty-something Stripes has more experience on an international playing field than me. I feel more out of my element than I have since I started my photography business after graduating from college. I remind myself that each of them began the same way I did, as nobodies with big dreams and a camera.
My glance catches Domenic’s stare as the shiver subsides. His expression remains even, but he holds my gaze long enough to send a flood of heat racing through my veins. Does he guess what’s on my mind? I can’t back down from the challenge in front of me. I shift in my seat, push my empty plate away, and lean forward with my arms folded along the edge of the table. I match his stare, and infuse mine with a challenge of my own.
Don’t think you’re gonna intimidate me into screwing up. I can handle anything you dish out.
Even if I’m not completely sure of that assertion myself.
The space of three heartbeats passes.
Domenic looks away, sets his bowl on the table, and clears his throat. Everyone sets aside forks, mugs, or smartphones and turns their attention toward him.
“So we need to get moving,” he begins. “The airport shuttle will be here in about ten minutes to load up our gear and luggage. Joe will take care of everyone’s documentation once we get to the airport.”
All eyes flick to Glasses. So that’s Joe. I turn to him and offer a quick half-smile that he acknowledges in kind. A little relief washes over me, settling some of my nerves.
“Once we get in the air, you’ll get your itineraries for the first week,” Domenic continues. “Look it over, plan your meals and any sightseeing you want to do. Once we get into week two, we hit the ground running. Anything you need tech or equipment-wise when we get to Rome, check with Dave and Rafe.” He points to Short and Stout, who nod in unison.
Guess I have to think of them as a pair no matter what I call them.
“Miranda has room assignments for the hotel in Prati.” He indicates Shades, who doesn’t even nod at the mention of her name, then glances at his printout again and falls silent, thinking.
Miss Model, still officially nameless, clears her throat. Domenic looks up at her, and she subtly inclines her head in my direction.
Domenic straightens. “Kate Miller’s joining us from Atlanta to take Riley’s place.” He offers no further information about me or the credentials Beth undoubtedly shared with him. Instead, he stands and starts gathering his breakfast dishes and papers. “If you want coffee for the road, grab it now.”
My mouth drops open slightly, but I clamp it shut again as everyone bursts into motion. In less than thirty seconds, I’m alone at the table.
Someone touches my shoulder. Jumping, I crane my head to see Joe Kipling standing behind me.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asks.
“One cream, no sugar.” With a sigh, I push away from the table and pick up my empty plate and mug.
“I’ll grab you a to-go cup.” Joe gives my upper arm a slight nudge. “You and I can squeeze into the back row of the shuttle together so I can fill you in.”
I nod. “Domenic said you might give me the rundown on everything during the flight.”
“Sure will, but you’ll want to have a heads up about a couple things before you’re cooped up for ten hours with a half-dozen people who don’t know or trust you yet.”
Arching one eyebrow, I step toward a nearby trashcan. “Does that include you?”
The snark in my tone draws a grin from him. He does an about-face and marches to the coffee pots. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Everyone maintains relative silence throughout the ride to the airport. Tucked in the back seat of the shuttle, Joe murmurs to me about the general protocol Domenic tends to follow during his shoots. I interject questions as needed, determined to demonstrate, at least to him, that while I may not have any international photography experience, I’m a quick study and plan to carry my weight. Joe confirms the roles that Dave and Rafe play as the muscle of the operation, as well as Miss Model’s—whose real name is Corrine—as head of the wardrobe and makeup team. Miranda turns out to be something between a personal assistant and manager. Joe is the principle photographer behind Domenic. Stripes, otherwise known as Lauren, handles much of the computer work and on-site photo editing. My role seems to be one step below Joe’s in terms of participating in the photo shoots, but all anyone expects me to do is take great pictures and generally stay out from underfoot.
Domenic glances at us over his shoulder a couple times, but from his seat beside the shuttle driver, our conversation must be muffled by road noise and the shifting of baggage and equipment in the cargo area. Still, the second glance catches mine, and I swallow hard with nerves, anticipation, and something else I can’t quite identify.
As the shuttle merges onto the ramp for the airport exit, I nudge Joe’s arm and lean closer. “Trust to be earned aside, is everybody always so standoffish?”
Joe peers at me. “The circumstances that led to Domenic seeking a replacement photographer were a little disorienting, to say the least.”
“I was told I was filling in for a medical leave of absence.”
Several seconds pass, then Joe turns his gaze to the window. The emotional strain in his body is palpable, and I shift away from him to offer as much space as I can.
“Let’s just leave it at that, then,” he finally says.
I somehow doubt anyone will just leave it at that when all’s said and done, but I’ve never been one to pry and won’t dig for gossip unless it starts to affect my job. Focusing on the last few swigs of coffee in my cup, I watch the scenery flash by and try to ignore the sensation of once more being scrutinized by our Fearless Leader.
Since we’re taking a charter rather than commercial flight, the photography team skips the check-in queue entirely once we enter the airport. Joe and Domenic disappear in the charter company office, everyone’s documentation and the baggage manifest in hand. I stand at the fringe of the group, shifting my weight from side to side and fighting the urge to chew on my fingernails. To keep myself occupied, or at least give the impression that I do stuff like this all the time, I extract my smartphone from my purse and start playing around with one of my game apps. Hopefully with the sound muted and the screen oriented away from everyone, it just looks like I’m ch
ecking email or updating my social media.
An eternity later, Domenic and Joe emerge from the charter company’s office, a stack of new documents and boarding passes in Joe’s hands. Domenic gives a jerk of his chin toward the security checkpoint. Everyone grabs their carry-ons and follows in his wake. Shoving my phone back into my bag, I scurry behind them all, relieved when Joe falls into step beside me.
“Ever done a trans-Atlantic flight before?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I did a cross-country flight to San Francisco right after college. A friend asked me to shoot her wedding. But never over an ocean.”
“Do you get airsick at all?”
“Not usually, unless turbulence is really bad.” Of course, my nerves over this whole adventure are already twisting into a sickening feeling in my gut. The flight could be smooth as silk, and I could still end up depositing my breakfast into a barf bag.
Joe pats his jacket pocket. “I always carry a few extra doses of motion sickness meds with me. I kind of have a weak stomach. Let me know if you need some.”
He excuses himself as we fall into line at the security checkpoint, and a few minutes pass as the TSA officer looks over our documentation and asks Domenic and Joe a few questions. We’re waved through to the expedited screening lane, and everyone gathers briefly on the other side of the checkpoint to wait for our carry-on baggage to finish scanning. Once all our stuff has been accounted for, Domenic leads us on to the terminal and the gate where our charter flight awaits.
“Let’s get moving,” Domenic says, taking the boarding passes from Joe. “Pilot wants to be cleared for takeoff in twenty minutes.”
When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Page 3