For a second, I just stare. I don’t even mean to, but there’s something about her that makes it hard to look away. She’scute, yeah, but not in the usual way I’m used to. Not in the overdone, glossy, Instagram-model-trying-to-get-backstage-to-have-some-cred-and-offer-a-blow-job way that’s been following me lately. She’s real. Like, actually real. The kind of real I haven’t experienced in . . . fuck, I don’t even know how long.
As I get closer, I see her grip her camera a little tighter, her knuckles going white. She looks like she’s debating whether to bolt or stay, and for some reason, the thought makes me smirk.
“Hey,” I say, stepping into the hallway, keeping my tone casual, like I’m not already trying to figure her out. “Airport Girl, right?”
Her brows lift, and she blinks at me, caught off guard. “That’s . . . not my name. Mr. Lost ‘my laptop and probably my wallet’ Guy.”
“No?” I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing my arms as I study her. I could tell her that playing games doesn’t look good on her, but I’ll let her for now. “Are you sure it’s not your name? I mean, I never got your name, so it’s either that or Laptop Savior. Your call.”
She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, and I catch the faintest blush creeping up her neck. “Ophelia,” she says after a beat. “My name’s Ophelia.”
Ophelia. It suits her—unique without trying too hard.
“In case you’re wondering, the name is Keane. Not ‘loses his shit easily’ or whatever you want to name me,” I say, extending a hand, even though I’m pretty sure she knows exactly who I am. She hesitates, her gaze flicking to my hand like it might bite her, but eventually, she shakes it. Her grip is firm, her hand smaller than mine.
“So, why are you here?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow slightly as she sizes me up. “Probably the same reason as you,” she replies, and now I’m genuinely confused.
“So we’re here to take pictures, huh?” I mean there’s no other explanation, is there?
“Oh, this?” She tugs at the camera strap and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, clearly flustered. “No. I mean, yeah, I’ll take a few here and there. But not like you’re thinking. My dad . . . he’s a big fan of Dreadful Souls. If I’m going to be here, I might as well capture a little Chris Decker history.”
I want to point out that Chris Decker might’ve been the frontman for Dreadful Souls but the band was no longer together when he moved to Seattle to start this record company. There’s something that doesn’t add up here, I just don’t know what it is.
“So you’re here to photograph the ex-members of the band?” I ask, watching her closely, trying to figure her out. Maybe she’s not some wide-eyed art major but a savvy paparazzo looking for dirt.
Her lips press into a thin line, and she shifts her stance, glancing back toward the room she came from. “Nope, just the building or some of the memorabilia on the walls or . . . something. I like to capture memories,” she says carefully. Then her tone sharpens just slightly. “And you should know that taking pictures, video, or recording the Deckers is forbidden and grounds for immediate termination. You did read your NDA before accepting the internship, right?”
Internship? She really thinks I’m an intern.
And now it makes sense—she’s here for the summer, probably stuck doing grunt work no one else wants. Still, something about her throws me off. She doesn’t carry herself like the other interns I’ve met—those desperate to impress, eager to name-drop and network. She’s quiet. Observant. Like she’s content to stay on the edges and just watch.
“So you’ll work, but if something grabs your attention, you’ll take pictures too?” I nod toward her camera.
She shrugs, her fingers brushing the strap absentmindedly. “Sometimes. That’s what I do, mostly for myself. I’m not really looking to go pro or anything.”
“Why not?” The words are out before I can stop them. “You’ve got the look for it. Serious artist vibes.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to decide if I’m mocking her. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply with a grin, letting the silence stretch just long enough to see if she’ll fill it.
Instead, she tilts her head, her tone turning teasing. “Wait. Are you buttering me up so I’ll trust you, only to screw me over and get the full-time position next year?”
I bark out a laugh. “You think they’d consider me for a full-time position?”
She rolls her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching. “You’re a guy. You look like you belong here with all the rockstar people, and you’re probably charming when you’re not being insufferable.”
“Miss Foster,” the receptionist’s crisp voice cuts through the moment, and we both glance over. “Mrs. Decker is ready for you.”
Ophelia nods, her expression softening as she glances back at me. “See you around, Keane.”
“I hope so,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can overthink them.
She doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, but something about the way her name lingers in my mind feels different.
Ophelia.
