“Probably no one thought about it.” She pulls her phone out of her purse and studies the screen. “One of the digi techs. Hang on a sec.”
She breaks away from me to take the call. Miranda and Joe turn, and I signal for them to hold up until Lauren’s done. As they link hands and wander to one side of the walkway so Joe can take some pictures, I can’t stop a frown. My palm tingles, my skin remembering the feel of Domenic’s fingers closing around my hand. I’ve never been the sentimental sort, and while my business puts many romantic couples in my path, the desire to explore any lasting possibilities on that front have never surfaced.
Despite my mother’s best efforts.
My frown twists a little deeper. Clutching the strap of my camera, I breeze past Joe and Miranda. “I’m gonna go ahead a ways.”
Miranda says nothing, but Joe makes a brief comment about not wandering too far on my own.
I nod, but my independent streak bristles at the reminder. Struggling not to let my general irritation show, I march away and turn a corner. Though still within earshot of my colleagues, being out of their line of sight provides a rush of relief from the tension that’s been building over the past couple weeks.
Looking around, I notice a riotous wash of purple spilling over the top of a ruin. Curiosity tugs my photographer’s eye, and I amble over to the crumbled, weathered building. The purple turns out to be blossoms of wisteria, the soft hue brilliant in the late spring sun. A trunk at least five inches in diameter has grown straight up from what was once the floor of the small structure, twisting branches snaking along the broken outer walls and interlacing with themselves to create a thick canopy of color over the empty space below.
Something strikes me in the sight. Heart pounding, I slowly lift my camera and center the shot in the viewfinder. Minutes slip away in the flutter of several rapid shutter clicks. Crouching, stooping, moving side to side to test the various angles, I picture each shot in my mind, exhilaration rising at the thought of capturing something timeless—something I can share with the world.
My breath comes in a shallow rhythm as I take my final photo and straighten, as if I’ve just sprinted the hundred-yard dash.
“Interesting how nature so easily takes back what man tries to create and control.”
I spin at the sound of Domenic’s voice. He stands a couple feet behind me, like he was the other day in the studio. “We thought you were working today.”
“I finished what I needed to do.”
“How’d you know where we were?” I’d been so absorbed in taking pictures of the wisteria, I hadn’t heard him approach. The thought of him sneaking up on me, again, sends me into a tailspin as much as the thought of him looking for me.
Or us. I guess I shouldn’t presume he’s here just to hang out with me.
Domenic shrugs, muscles bunching beneath his close-fitting green T-shirt, and hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I sent Joe a text a little while ago when I was close to wrapping up. He said everybody was exploring the ancient sites, so I came to join in the time travel.”
“We’ve already done the Coliseum and Palatine Hill, and there’s only a little of the Forum left,” I point out.
He grins. “Spoken like a true tourist.”
At the dig, my spine stiffens and I purse my lips. “Did you notice if Lauren was done with her phone call? I was just killing time.”
“Rein in the snark, Kate. I was just joking.”
“I didn’t say anything snarky.”
“You had a tone.”
Glaring at him, I sling my camera back over my shoulder. A retort finds its way to the surface, but before I can launch barbed words at him, he reaches out for my elbow. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down my arm, the heat of it puddling in my core with a sensation both ridiculous and wonderful.
“I’m just tired and hot.” Definitely not the barbed words I intended to hurl his way.
He smiles at me, his grip sliding down my forearm and past my wrist until his long, cool fingers catch my hand. “I think you’re getting hangry, actually.”
“Hangry?” I echo, my eyebrows shooting up.
“Hunger-induced anger? You know, hangry.”
“We had lunch a little while ago.”
“Sightseeing takes a lot out of you.” He tugs me forward, then cups his free hand around his mouth and turns to holler at the others. “Hey, Joe!”
Joe’s head pops into sight around the corner. “Yeah?”
Domenic’s smile broadens. “Kate and I are gonna go grab something to eat. You guys in?”
“Lauren’s still on the phone with one of the digi techs,” Joe calls back. “She might have to beg off the rest of the afternoon. Miranda and I were planning to head back to the hotel and get cleaned up before we go out for dinner.”
“Sounds good.” Domenic gives Joe a wave, then turns back to me. “Guess it’s just the two of us. We’ll get something we can eat while we walk, then go back to the hotel ourselves.”
My gaze holds his for a moment, the implied intimacy in his words making that little puddle of delicious heat in my chest begin to rise in my veins until my cheeks flame.
Did Joe notice Domenic holding my hand? The thought rises on a surge of panic.
“I think I’d rather go back to the hotel and take a nap.” I pull my fingers free, flexing and closing them briefly at the self-imposed loss of his touch. “If it’s all the same to you.”
A look of concern flashes across his face. “You shouldn’t wander around Rome by yourself, even in broad daylight.”
I could argue about how I work in Atlanta, one of the biggest cities in Georgia. But common sense overcomes the unnecessary defensiveness. There’s a difference between being stubborn and being stupid. “I’ll wait for Lauren and at least take the Metro back with her.”
Disappointment replaces his concern. “All right. But maybe one of these days you’ll let me show you some of Rome’s hidden gems—since you’re already working through the standard tourist checklist on your own.”
I should tell him no thanks, that hanging out with him isn’t in the cards.
Instead, I say, “That would be nice.”
The soft quality of my voice brings a glimmer of mischievous victory into his green eyes. “I can hardly wait.”
Swallowing, I spin on my heel and practically run back to where I’d left Lauren.
Chapter 8
The Proof is in the Pictures
Over the next couple days, I test the waters at the studio to see exactly how much leeway Domenic is willing to give me when it comes to my portion of the shoot. I can’t do anything about the backgrounds, but I’m sick of trying to force angles that will look halfway decent in the final proofs. Instead, I ask Rafe and Dave to take down the green screen so I can shoot against the plain, pristine white of the studio walls and floor, or utilize the black and blue-gray scrims. My requests are met with raised eyebrows, but also compliance.
The greater challenge will come when I request that Corrine match my models’ hairstyles with their wardrobe pieces. That confrontation will be no fun for anyone involved, especially me. Though Lauren has warmed to me, Joe’s been friendly off the bat, and Miranda at least looks me in the eye when I ask her a question. Corrine remains standoffish at best.
I just hope Domenic will have my back, as promised, when the inevitable shit hits the fan.
Still, I decide to put off my conversation with Corrine until after our Friday afternoon team meeting.
The meeting usually starts with the core team members straggling into the conference room, arms loaded with proof sheets, laptops, checklists, and pages of notes on this week’s shoots, and questions and ideas for next week. I’m the first to arrive, besides our Fearless Leader. Domenic occupies a chair at the head o
f the oval table, his own stack of notes waiting beside a glass of water. Determined to promote his solidarity through proximity, I slide into the seat to his right and spread out my materials.
He glances at me, a half-smirk tugging his lips as he leans toward me to whisper in my ear. “You don’t happen to have your personal SD card with you, do you?”
The warm current of his breath, carried on the soft words, moves the stray strands of hair that have slipped from my ponytail. They tickle the side of my neck, and the combined sensations send a disorienting swirl of heat through my stomach.
Stupid butterflies.
Swallowing, I tap the side of my laptop. “Why?”
“Just curious to see your favorite shot of that wisteria you were photographing on Sunday.”
“Right now?” I face him, caught off guard to still find him leaning close.
The swirl of heat volcanoes to the top of my head, and I almost scoot my chair back a couple inches. As if sensing it, he rests his hand on the back of my wrist for a second or two, anchoring me there. Anybody could walk in right now, minutes away from the scheduled start of the meeting. And Domenic’s grin makes it seem pretty obvious he’s thinking about how damn close we are, too.
Close enough to kiss.
What the frig?
I clear my throat, and he slowly eases away and withdraws his hand. The look that crosses his face hints at a struggle to smother temptation. Was he thinking about kissing me?
For my part, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
Provided we were in a different place and time.
Or at least place.
“I know you took those pictures off the clock.” A slight catch in his tone further reveals the effort required to reestablish his usual control. “But it’d help me make a point with everybody if you’re willing to share one.”
Aware of the ebbing heat in my cheeks, I turn back to my computer and bring up the file explorer. A few clicks later, and my favorite image, though still unedited, blooms in vibrant purple detail to fill the screen.
“Will that work?” I ask, shifting the laptop so he can see.
He studies the image, back to business. “How did you manage a close-up from that angle?” he asks, picking up his water to take a drink.
“I might have hung a little farther over the guardrail than recommended.”
Mid-sip, Domenic jerks in his seat and sputters for a moment, then coughs into his fist until his throat clears. He starts to respond, but the door swings open as Joe herds Miranda, Lauren, Dave, Rafe, and Corrine into the room. The ensuing blare of conversation covers Domenic’s last few spasms. By the time everyone grabs a seat, he and I are both back under control.
We spend about thirty minutes going around the table and debriefing each other on the status of our personal corners of the shoot. Once all the lingering feedback dies down, Domenic pushes his notes away, takes a smooth sip of water, and rises.
“Sounds like we’re not only on schedule,” he says, “but we’re actually a little ahead of where we expected to be with principle photography. That gives us some room to play a little.”
Joe rests his folded arms on the table, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”
Domenic glances at Miranda, then at me, before answering. “Thanks to the scouts, backed up with some hustling from Miranda, we were able to line up two on-location shoots for next week, Tuesday only. We landed Trevi Fountain and the upper gardens of Palatine Hill that overlook the Coliseum.”
With a whistle, Joe slumps back in his seat and casts an appreciative smile at Miranda. “Nice work.”
She smirks and waves off his comment. The exchange, now that I’m aware of their marital status, subtly displays their affection in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
“How will you coordinate two location shoots?” Corrine asks.
“Two teams,” Domenic answers. He picks up a few sheets of paper from the stack in front of him and flicks them across the table. “It’s only one day, so we have to be efficient, do most of our review back here the rest of the week. Joe and I will cover Palatine Hill—”
Corrine lifts one perfectly manicured hand. “Hold up. If you and Joe will be at Palatine Hill, who’s taking Trevi?”
Domenic levels a masterful glare at her, and matter-of-factly states, “Kate.”
Shock freezes everyone in their seats, including me.
“Wouldn’t it be better for Kate to team up with Joe?” Miranda offers, her voice tentative.
“I think Kate can manage on her own.” Domenic turns his stare toward his administrative assistant, his expression hardening as if daring her to challenge his decision. Then he sweeps his gaze over the rest of the team, leaving me for last. “And she won’t really be on her own. Lauren will go, along with a digi tech she handpicks, and Dave and Rafe will handle the equipment. It’s a smaller space and calls for a smaller production crew.” He looks at Corrine again. “Pick two or three of your best assistants to man the mobile dressing room.”
My throat goes dry as the realization sinks in. I’d asked for more autonomy, but I hadn’t expected Domenic to actually hand over an entire on-location shoot.
Corrine remains unconvinced. “Are you sure she’s ready?”
To be honest, I’m not sure myself. But I keep my mouth shut. Corrine’s general discomfort with the situation is half-amusing, half-worrisome.
Domenic’s response to his wardrobe stylist’s skepticism is to take my open laptop by the screen and swing it around so everyone can see the carefully framed and angled close-up of the wisteria on the screen.
“I’m sure,” he says.
“How’d you manage that?” Joe asks, narrowing his eyes as he studies the image.
I lick my lips before answering. “A little bit of acrobatics.”
Corrine scoffs. “This is foliage. Not fashion.”
Domenic gestures at the computer. “It’s not about the subject. It’s the light, the angle, the composition. The eye for detail, for what draws the viewer in. And it’s about willingness to take a risk. Kate practically had to climb into a restricted area to get this shot. That shows me she’s got the guts to try something new, to challenge some established rules for her art.” He glances at me, offering a quick smile before facing his team again. “Anybody else have a problem with this?”
Murmurs to the negative rumble back, and Domenic launches into the details of the on-location shoots. I listen as best as I can, but my mind spins.
I’m in charge, the principle photographer for a whole day.
Because Domenic liked a picture I took of some flowers.
Granted, he admitted the other night to reviewing my online portfolio, before giving Beth the go ahead to offer me the job. But somehow, his motives seem to go a little deeper, like he’s trying to prove something to me.
But maybe I’ll be the one proving something to him. That not only do I have a great eye for composition, but I have the chops to cut it at this level.
I meet Lauren, Dave, and Rafe at the studio at the break of dawn on Tuesday morning, to-go cups of coffee for everyone in hand. My nerves jump as we finish packing the van, even though Lauren double checks everything on the list of necessary equipment after the guys organize the gear.
“Relax,” she tells me, climbing into the middle row of seats beside me. “People might think you’ve never done an on-location photo shoot before.”
Her smile diffuses some of my tension. “I’ve done plenty of on-location engagement shoots and outdoor weddings. This is just my first time doing it for high fashion.”
“I’m no photographer, but I’d assume the general principles and techniques are the same.” Lauren shrugs. “Besides, Domenic wouldn’t have sent you to Trevi on your own if he didn’t think you could handle it.”
The streets are empty as we traverse the Renaissance era neighborhoods surrounding Trevi Fountain. We arrive just a few minutes before the wardrobe van and the little car carrying the three models I’ll be shooting. The makeup and wardrobe stylists get to work while I direct Dave and Rafe in setting up the filters and windscreens. Lauren, meanwhile, putters in the back of the equipment van with her laptop. Despite my plan to shoot tethered, she offers to act as my assistant, changing out lenses and camera batteries as needed, rather than monitor the images on the computer.
Reality is, Lauren’s here for moral support.
Our location permit only allows us to work at Trevi Fountain until noon. Everyone besides me, used to these sorts of time constraints, launches into gear before I even adjust my tripod. I spend the first hour taking test proofs to check our angles, but by the time the sun’s full glory spills over the tiled rooftops above us, instinct takes over. Dave and Rafe respond to my subtle commands and gestures, moving the windscreens and filters as needed to keep the light and air consistent around the models. The stylists hang back, peeking over Lauren’s shoulder as she periodically browses the raw proofs. Chattering in Italian, the models move through their poses with refined grace and practiced ease. Eventually they switch their conversations to heavily accented English, letting me listen in on the mundane stories about dates, clubbing, and the price of good wine at Lake Como.
The atmosphere envelopes me in a satisfied warmth I haven’t felt in years. That sense of accomplishment, that what I’m doing not only matters, but garners respect. As the shoot draws to a close, I take a moment to inhale deeply, savoring this little win.
I still have to show the proofs to Domenic and the rest of the team before I can claim complete victory. The thought sends my nerves into overdrive again. But then the models, back in their street clothes, kiss my cheeks in that distinctly European way and trill their thanks for the fun morning.
When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Page 7