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“So, have you always wanted to be a photographer?” Hanna asked as they headed along Market Street toward City Hall. It was freezing outside, and everyone was walking around with their heads down and their hoods up. Dirty, slushy snow piled at the curbs.
“Ever since I was little,” Patrick admitted. “I was that kid who never went anywhere without a disposable camera. Remember those—or are you too young?”
“Of course I remember them,” Hanna scoffed. “I’m eighteen—how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Patrick said, as if that were so much older. He gestured to the left, off to another section of the city. “I went to Moore College of Art. Just graduated.”
“Did you like it? I’m thinking of going to F.I.T. or Pratt for fashion design.” She’d just submitted applications a few weeks ago.
“I loved it.” Patrick ducked out of the way of a hot dog cart that was smack in the middle of the sidewalk. The smell of greasy sausages wafted through the air. “You’ll love New York, too—but I bet you won’t be going there for school. One of the modeling agencies will sign you. I’m sure of it.”
It felt like there were fairies dancing in Hanna’s stomach. “What makes you so sure?” she challenged nonchalantly, like she didn’t care one way or another.
“When I was in school, I worked as an assistant on a lot of fashion shoots.” Patrick paused for a red light. “You’ve got the unique look editors and designers love.”
“Really?” If only Hanna could record what he just said and upload it to her Twitter feed. Or, better yet, post it directly on Kate’s Facebook page.
“So how’d you get the gig for my dad’s commercial, anyway?” Hanna asked.
Patrick smiled wryly. “I was doing a favor for a friend. Normally I wouldn’t touch commercials—especially political ones. I don’t really follow politics.”
“Me neither,” Hanna said, relieved. She wasn’t even clear on her father’s opinions on the big issues. If he won the election and someone wanted to interview her, well, that’s what media coaches were for.
“He seems like a nice guy, though,” Patrick shouted over the noise of a passing city bus. “But what’s with your sister? She seemed really uptight.”
“Stepsister,” Hanna corrected him quickly.
“Ah.” Patrick grinned at her knowingly, his almost-black eyes crinkling. “I should’ve guessed you weren’t related.”
They reached City Hall, and Patrick got to business, directing Hanna to pose in the shadow of the grand archway. “Okay, think ‘girl who wants something so badly she can taste it,’” he instructed, pointing the lens at her. “You’re hungry, you’re yearning, and you’ll stop at nothing for your goal. Can you get into that mood?”
Uh, yeah. She was already in that mood. She posed against the wall, giving Patrick the most determined stare she could muster.
“Awesome,” Patrick said. Snap. Snap. “Your eyes look amazing.”
Hanna tossed her auburn hair, tilted her chin down, and parted her lips just so. It was a pose she’d made when she, Ali and the others did model shoots in Ali’s den. Ali had always told Hanna that face made her look like a plus-sized model on crack, but Patrick snapped away, shouting, “Brilliant!”
After a while, Patrick paused to gaze at the shots in the preview window. “You’re amazing. Have you done lots of photo shoots before?”
“Oh, a few.” The photo shoot for People after the Poconos scandal counted, right?
Patrick squinted into the lens again. “Okay, chin up a bit. Give me sultry.”
Hanna tried her best to make her eyes smolder. Snap. Snap.
A crowd of tourists gathered and whispered. “What magazine are you shooting for?” a middle-aged woman asked in a reverent voice.
“Vogue,” Patrick answered without missing a beat. The crowd clucked and oohed; a few people pushed closer to snap photos of Hanna themselves. She felt like a star.
After a few more shots at the Liberty Bell, Patrick suggested they head to his studio. The sun sank low in the sky as they walked back to Fishtown. He bounced up the steps of a pretty brownstone and opened the door for her. “Hope you don’t mind stairs.”
When Patrick opened the black-painted door on the fourth floor, Hanna let out a loud ooh! The studio was a giant room covered in photographs of all shapes and sizes. Three long windows looked out onto the street. A flat-screen Mac glowed in the corner. There was a tiny kitchen off to the right; on the counter were containers of darkroom chemicals. But instead of smelling like the photography classroom at Rosewood Day, the room was fragrant with Hanna’s favorite Delirium & Co candle, China Tea.
“Do you live here?” Hanna asked.
“Nah, just work.” Patrick dropped his bag on the floor. “I share it with a couple other photographers. Hopefully no one will bother us while we’re finishing up.”
He put on an old bossa nova CD, arranged a couple of lights, and positioned Hanna on a stool. Instantly, Hanna began to sway back and forth, entranced by the sound of the music. “Good,” Patrick murmured. “Move your body. Just like that.” Snap. Snap.
Hanna unzipped her leather jacket and undulated to the song, her eyes starting to hurt from so much sexy squinting. The lights beamed hotly on her skin, and in an impetuous moment, she flung off her leather jacket to reveal the thin scoop-neck dress underneath.
“Pretty!” Patrick murmured. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Now fling your hair back and forth! Good!”
