When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2)

by J. Lynn Rowan

“Wanted to get first crack at the breakfast pastries, I guess.”

  He nods, then stretches his arms overhead and releases a sound somewhere between a groan and a yawn. “I need my morning shot of caffeine. What’s your preference?”

  “Just one cream, no sugar.” Telling him how I take my coffee feels oddly intimate, nothing like the friendly exchange I had with Joe yesterday when he asked the same question.

  Domenic smirks and drops his arms back to his sides. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to order coffee like an American while you’re here.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and return the smirk with one of my own. “Why? Doesn’t sound chic enough for a fashion photographer?”

  “No.” His smirk grows despite the purposeful snark in my tone. “Because it sucks ass most of the time.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  Instead of responding, Domenic turns and reenters the breakfast room. I follow, pausing in the doorway while he beckons to the diminutive waitress who’s just bustled through the kitchen doors with two baskets laden with pastries. He takes the baskets from her and sets them on a nearby table.

  “Due cappuccini, per favore.”

  The waitress nods and retreats to the kitchen.

  Domenic faces me again. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve had cappuccino before,” I say, shrugging.

  For just a moment, he regards me with another curious smirk. “No, you haven’t.”

  A retort hovers on the tip of my tongue, but before it can escape, the waitress returns with Domenic’s order. She sets the cups beside the pastries, then disappears again. Domenic hands a cup to me and stares while I take a tentative sip.

  The instant the slightly sweet, creamy cappuccino hits my tongue, I rethink everything I ever knew about coffee.

  “Well?” Domenic asks.

  Donning what I hope is a nonchalant expression, I take another sip. “It’s good.” About a zillion times better than any cappuccino I’ve ever tasted.

  “Good,” he echoes, picking up the other cup and taking a long sip of his own.

  A little foam clings to his upper lip, which he quickly licks away.

  My stomach flips again, this time accompanied by a delicious melting sensation all through my limbs that I can’t attribute to the cappuccino. I spin to face the windows to hide the rush of heat, and certain color, that blooms in my cheeks. Domenic paces close behind, but he says nothing else. I sip from my cup and try to calm the irregular rhythm of my pulse.

  I should try and break this tension, say something flat out to let him know I’m more of a touch-me-not than a touchy-feely sort of girl. This could just be his modus operandi, that he’s the sort of guy to make little gestures when getting to know someone. My first impression of him back in New York left me viewing him as an arrogant know-it-all, but everyone’s more faceted than that. I’ll have to observe him over the next few days to see how he interacts with the rest of the team once we’re on the job.

  The door to the breakfast room opens, and chatter floods the space as Miranda, Lauren, and Corrine enter, followed closely by Joe, Rafe, and Dave. I turn in time to see Domenic drain his cup and wave everyone over to the table where the baskets of pastries await. The team descends like ravenous vultures, but I hang back, watching.

  Joe steps away from the cluster around the baskets, several sticky pastries piled on a small plate. “Concierge just called a taxi for us,” he tells Domenic, extending the plate toward him.

  With a nod, Domenic grabs a pastry off the plate. “Meet you all downstairs in twenty.” He takes a huge bite, then starts out. Pausing in the doorway, his glance catches mine. He points at me, then flicks his index finger toward the pastries.

  Then he disappears into the hallway.

  I snag a seat next to Joe once more so I can chat with him about the week’s schedule Miranda shoved into my hand during the flight. For the most part, the focus of the first few days will be on test shots and staging. Joe explains that Domenic will likely spend long hours at the studio going over all the preliminary work with the production team based out of Rome, but the rest of us will have our afternoons and evenings free.

  “So there are more photographers and staff here?” I ask. “Not just us from New York.”

  Lauren, who sits in front of us, twists in her seat at my question. “Everyone who flew in from New York is the core of Domenic’s team. There are a couple assistants here who’ll follow the lead photographers around—that’s Domenic, Joe, and you—and help with equipment. Lens and flash changes, stuff that’s quick but will streamline a lot of the work.”

  “I don’t know the total number,” Joe adds. “Sometimes Domenic lines up twenty people or more to work the on-site production jobs. This is a particularly long shoot for a big client, so he’s been kind of picky about who’ll be around. He’s meticulous on the job.”

  My eyebrows lift at this assessment of Domenic’s character. He hasn’t seemed that picky about me being around, called in to fill the mysterious Riley’s shoes at the last minute. “So the Rome production crew aren’t people you normally work with?”

  “There could be a few familiar faces,” Lauren says. “We’ve done shoots here before, and Domenic likes to call people back who’ve done good work for him in the past.”

  “Domenic has a certain way of doing things,” Joe explains. “He conferences with his clients well in advance of planning and setting up production, and most of them give him plenty of leeway for his vision. Here and there, specific requests have to be accounted for. But he’s done this long enough that the people writing the big checks trust him to make great judgment calls.”

  A warning underlies Joe’s words. Every photographer has a certain way of doing things. I’m no different, even if my business is tiny compared to what Domenic does. It’s been a long time since I was an underling, though, and I remind myself to keep my tongue—and temper—in control for the duration.

  Chapter 6

  Artistic Differences

  The studio occupies the top floor of an unassuming five-story building near Villa Borghese. When we enter, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the brilliant white of the walls, a stark difference from the earthy tones of the facades lining the streets and the shifting shadows of the stairwell and corridors. Members of the production crew scurry about, setting up lights, adjusting scrims, and checking cables. Rafe, Dave, and Lauren peel off from our group, presumably to check in with the Roman crewmembers they’ll head up throughout the duration of the shoot. Miranda, too, curtly excuses herself and joins a pair of college-aged interns who are bogged down with armfuls of printouts, folders, and two or three laptops each.

  Domenic leads the rest of us through the studio proper and pushes through a door on the opposite side, into a modest room containing an oval table and two digital workstations. We each claim a chair as he sets his backpack at the head of the table and pulls out a large manila envelope.

  “Some reference photos from the client,” he says, taking a thick sheaf of prints and papers from the envelope. “Along with preview sketches of the wardrobe.”

  A flick of his wrist scatters the sheets across the surface of the table. Joe and Corrine choose a few of the examples that slide nearest them and begin to examine the offerings. I tap my fingertips on the arms of my chair for a moment, assessing the concentration that falls over both of their faces. My glance shifts to Domenic, still standing at the head of the table. His green gaze latches onto mine. With a hard swallow, I blindly reach out and pull some photos and sketches toward me. Only when he breaks away can I turn my eyes toward the images.

  “Corrine, most of the wardrobe pieces should already be in the dressing room,” Domenic continues. “Your assistants will probably have everything unpacked, but you’ll need to inventory everything and sort them
by size, color, style . . .”

  She stands and leans over the table as he speaks, plucking a few design sketches from the assorted images. “I know the drill, so why—”

  “Am I even telling you?” Domenic finishes.

  I look up, surprised by the open grin of amusement on his face.

  Rapport. They all have a rapport.

  And I’m not part of it. Not yet, anyway.

  Hands full, Corrine sweeps from the room. Domenic circles the table and settles into the vacated chair. Joe flips through the reference photos he’s gathered into a neat stack, then drags a few more toward him. I begin organizing the pictures on my side of the table, sorting by the type of lighting, poses, and featured colors. Domenic watches our progress. A productive silence drops over the three of us, while the hum of activity from the studio filters through the closed door. Our space becomes a cocoon of thought; Domenic remains still and silent until Joe and I finish sorting.

  “What do you think?” His voice rumbles in a low tone, and it takes a minute to realize he’s speaking directly to me. I look up, again catching his unexpectedly intense gaze. The skin on the back of my arms prickles as my mouth goes dry.

  Joe answers instead, without taking his eyes from the pictures he has spread out in front of him. “It’s an eclectic collection, more so than the last season you shot for this designer.”

  I swallow several times, forcing moisture into my mouth before speaking. “The styles are a mix of contemporary and classic. Sharp angles and flowing fabrics.”

  At least that was a somewhat coherent response, and Domenic nods in approval before turning to Joe. “They want Rome as the backdrop, regardless of the wardrobe styles being shot. Corrine will work her magic and put the hair and makeup people through their paces to get the look the client wants.”

  “What about backgrounds?” I venture.

  Domenic’s shifts his glance back to me. “We’ll utilize blue and green screens during the principle photography.”

  I sit up straighter in my chair. “If they want Rome, why can’t we give them the real thing?”

  Again, Joe’s the one to answer. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass to get location permits. I’m sure Miranda’s been on it since before we left New York, but the location scouts should have a list of places for the interns to shoot for backgrounds. We can do a lot digitally.”

  My lips start to tighten as I think about all the engagement sessions I’ve done out and about in and around Atlanta. “There’s something to be said about natural lighting.”

  “Hard to control natural lighting,” Domenic comments.

  “Not if you have filters.” I don’t own filters for my own business, but I remember using them extensively in one of my photography courses in college. “I can hardly believe you don’t have access to filters.”

  Something connects with the side of my leg under the table. After a second, I realize it was Joe’s foot. He gives me a warning look when I turn to him.

  But Domenic replies before Joe can. “We’ll have to see what Miranda can turn up. In the meantime, the background shots the interns collect will have to do.” He stands, flashing a weird glance my way before starting out the door.

  Joe cringes as the door slams behind Domenic. Then he flops back in his chair with a sigh. “You’re pretty used to being your own boss, aren’t you?”

  Hot words bubble up my throat, but I quell them as best I can. Joe’s been nothing but helpful. He doesn’t deserve any snark from me. “I guess.”

  “Well,” he continues as he stands, gathering his reference shots. “Just remember that at the end of the day, what Domenic says goes.”

  I stand as well, snatching up my own stack of photos and following Joe to the door. “So I shouldn’t speak up if I have an idea?”

  “It’s not that. In fact, Domenic does value input. But you’re new.” He pauses, one hand on the doorknob. “I told you—prove yourself behind the camera first.”

  Proving myself has always been the challenge, both behind and in front of the camera.

  I don’t say it out loud, but I think Joe can see it on my face. His expression softens a little, and he holds the door to the studio open for me.

  For the first couple days, we spend most of our time at the studio blocking shots with the models and experimenting with lighting. Domenic, Joe, and I each occupy a different station, with Domenic’s being the largest. While tethering my digital SLR to one of the laptops toward the end of the week, Lauren confides that Domenic will end up working long, late hours on his own, sometimes requiring the models to stay late or come in early, depending on what he plans to shoot that day.

  “Sucks to be the models,” I comment.

  “They all stay in hotels on this block. He likes to stay over in Prati because it’s quieter, but it’s not uncommon for him to pull an all-nighter when he gets into editing.” She clicks the computer mouse a few times, then pushes away from the workstation. “You’re all set. If you decide to work untethered, there’s a stash of SD cards in the bottom drawer.”

  I check the connection and take a couple test shots of the full apple box in the center of my station. “If he’s here working, doesn’t that mean the digi techs and assistants have to stick around, too?”

  Lauren shrugs, grabs a clipboard off a nearby stool, and plucks a pencil from the coils of her multi-colored hair. “Occasionally Joe camps out to help, but more often than not Domenic just does it all himself. If he gets into the zone, he doesn’t even notice who’s come and gone.”

  As she walks away, my attention slips to the center of the studio. Domenic stands in front of his green screen, facing the large umbrella mounts and issuing quiet commands for Dave and Rafe to adjust the height and angles of the external flashes. He gives them a thumbs-up after a few minutes, then waves over the two female models standing nearby. They move to his side and wait with detached patience as he positions them according to his blocking. Finally, he backs off the green screen, gives a few directions for the models’ arm and leg placements, and starts snapping pictures.

  Activity in the studio lulls with the rapid-fire action of Domenic’s shutter. He works tethered, but doesn’t even glance at the previews on the laptop. Drawn as if by a magnet, I drift closer. The images on the computer screen pull at me, and I study them, take quick mental notes before each is replaced by the next. He had already queued up a background shot of the Spanish Steps, and the way he’s positioned the models and worked the lighting is pure genius. If I didn’t know the photos were taken in a studio setting, I’d think they were taken on-site.

  The click of his shutter stops, and he readjusts the models’ blocking. As he resumes, my focus shifts from the computer screen to Domenic, to the lithe way he moves around the station to capture shots from every possible angle. Dave and Rafe linger near the lighting mounts, and the subtlest incline of Domenic’s head signals them to move a flash up or down, side to side.

  He’s working barefoot.

  The soles of my feet itch to be out of my sandals.

  “He’s pretty amazing, isn’t he?”

  I tilt my head slightly at the sound of Joe’s voice. “He’s not even checking the previews.”

  “Hardly ever does during the shoot itself. It’s like he knows what’s on the screen before he sees it.” Joe props his hands on his hips. “He’s always had that ability, to see the final image before he looks through the viewfinder.”

  “You’ve worked with him a long time?” I ask.

  “Since college.”

  My eyebrows lift, but I can’t seem to look away from Domenic. “No wonder you know so much about how he operates.”

  “Domenic’s particular about who he gets close to. I’m lucky to be counted among the few.” Joe’s smile is audible in his voice.

  At this, I do glanc
e at Joe, just in time to see a shadow pass in his expression. “I take it there have been incidents of bad blood in the past.”

  Like whatever happened with that Riley person. My curiosity on that point remains sharp.

  Joe shrugs. “This can be a tough profession, as you well know. People try to ride others’ coattails, and unfortunately, bridges get burned in the process. People get used, and then they get hurt.”

  Including Domenic Varezzi, fashion photographer extraordinaire? Joe doesn’t say it, but I catch the implication. The specific language of that copyright clause in the contract, the hushed-up circumstances of my subbing for Riley on this job, the inference that Domenic can get touchy if things aren’t done his way. All of it smacks of more than professional eccentricities. There’s a personal slant on all of it.

  Well, I know how that goes. No doubt Domenic once stood in shoes similar to mine—marginalized, scrabbling to prove himself while making a living with his art, learning how selfish people can be in the pursuit of their own goals.

  And look how far he’s come.

  Joe moves away from my side, back to his workstation. I watch Domenic for a few more minutes, then return to my own. The level of activity in the studio slowly returns to its previous buzz, and I lose myself in my camera.

  Background images of Rome flash across my computer screen as I click through the assortment collected by the interns. Nothing looks right when I test them against the photos I took this morning. Domenic somehow manages to get the angles right when he shoots his models in front of the green screen, but I just don’t have the knack. A scowl has fixed itself on my forehead, the tension pulling my eyebrows together, and the slow pound of a headache marks a steady beat in my temples.

  Part of the problem, at least when I consider the vision suggested by the clients, is that Corrine has the models’ hair and makeup done in soft, ethereal styles, while their clothes are of the starkly modern persuasion. Structured shoulders and blocks of color don’t pair well with high, loose piles of curls, or the antiquated landmarks of Roman architecture. Not in my mind’s eye, anyway.