The door to my bathroom cracks open.“Montgomery?”Bailey calls out.“You ready?”
I pause, hunched over the softbox that’s casting an even, diffused light over my bed.Am I ready?
Bailey stayed the night at a motel about an hour away—didn’t want her family to know she’s here.Smart, considering Hunter would lose his mind.
She arrived this morning, and we’ve spent the past few hours setting up.Props arranged, furniture moved, my bedroom transformed into a studio.Echo’s locked in my office, protesting loudly.My camera gear is everywhere—tripods, lenses, all my equipment turning my personal space into something professional.
Through the windows, clouds diffuse the afternoon sun perfectly.We have a few hours before golden hour for the outdoor shots Bailey wants.
Everything’s ready.Except maybe me.
Bet you’re not surprised.
I straighten up, pushing my glasses to my forehead, then scrub my hands over my face.I can do this.I cantotallydo this.
“Ready,” I call back.I move behind my camera and play with the settings, giving myself something—anything—to do other than gawk at her.
The bathroom door opens, and I focus even harder.This is just like any other shoot you’ve done.Just like the headshots for the principal or the Easter pictures of the O’Malley kids.Remember the real bunny?Cute.Happy kids.This is just like that.
“Okay,” I say and glance over at Bailey.
I do a double take, and a laugh bursts out of me.
Bailey’s jaw drops, a flush surging over her cheeks.“What are you laughing at?”
I try to stop myself, but I can’t.It’s just too funny.
She crosses her arms over her chest protectively.“Silas,” she whines and smacks my upper arm.“Whaattttt?”
“The robe,” I say.When I looked over, I was expecting Bailey to be in one of the lingerie outfits, but instead, she’s wearing my bathrobe.
A pink flannel bathrobe with bananas all over it.
“Shut up,” she says, and her face morphs from defensiveness to embarrassment.“It’syour bathrobe.I forgot mine.”
“I was expecting you in lingerie, not the bathrobe your brother gave me eight years ago,” I tease.“Why do you make it look so hot?”
But the comment works, pulling out the real Bailey, the one who deflects with mock offense when she’s actually embarrassed.I’d rather have her swatting at me than seeing that flash of hurt in her eyes.
Bailey’s hair is a luxurious chestnut, with highlights that make it shine.Her makeup is heavier than she normally applies, but the deep red of her lips makes me think of pinups, and the smoky makeup brings out the pop of gold flecks in her eyes.
But the point is we’re both laughing, and I’m more at ease than I was a few minutes ago.That’s good.We both need to be relaxed for Bailey to look natural in front of the camera.
“Okay,” I say, trying to get us back on track.I look down at my Nikon and fiddle with it, feeling the need to do something with my hands again.“I think we’re ready, so why don’t we start?—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the robe drop, and like a magnet, I can’t control my own eyes.They snap over to Bailey.She’s standing stock-still, like she’s trying very hard not to cover herself.I get a glimpse—skin and red and black lace and curves and Jesus Christ—before I force my eyes back to my camera.
“—on the bed.”
I must have the best poker face in the world because Bailey doesn’t comment on anything.My heart launches from my chest with every beat like a cartoon animal.
Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
I avert my eyes while Bailey crawls—dear god, shecrawls—onto the bed and settles herself against the white headboard.
Looking through my lens, I school myself to see Bailey as something else.She’s not my best friend’s sister, she’s not my first crush.She’s light and shadow.Composition.The way the dark lace contrasts against white sheets.The curve of her shoulder catching the diffused glow from the softbox.
She’s a client.A subject.Art.
