Working with him for the last three years has shown me one important thing: ditch the shot list and point the camera. It’s way easier than trying to wrangle him(Ivy, I’m looking at you).
Her gaze narrows. “Did you mess with my banner?”
The signage looms. Tourists laugh as they snap selfies withSeal The Deal.
“Not my handiwork.”
“Oh, sure. Happy coincidence.”
“You really think I’d wreck this event?”
No answer. She doesn’t need to. Those eyes? Judge, jury, and executioner.
She thinks I don’t give a shit about the sea lions. As if the cause doesn’t matter. As if I don’t feel the pressure that this weekend has to deliver. It twists something ugly inside me.
“I don’t sabotage things for the hell of it,” I growl through my teeth.
She plants her hands on her hips, all fire and challenge. “And I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” My gaze rakes over her slowly, drinking in the way her chest rises with every furious breath. “All that huffing and stomping? Adorable. But unnecessary.”
“You think operating on a grin and a prayer will charm your way into the promotion?”
“No, Stopwatch.” I lean in, close enough to see the gold flecks in her fiery eyes. “My results will.”
The ocean crashes outside, its roar filling the silence.
She doesn’t flinch. Me neither.
And for one stupid, fucked-up second, I imagine her giving up the fight and letting me use my mouth for more than talking.
I clench my jaw, expelling the thought.
I’m not here forthat. I’m here towin.
Ivy’s tablet dings. I barely register the names before she swooshes the screen away.
Cam & Reece… our bosses.
She beelines it to the lobby’s famous green velvet bench—the circular one plastered on every Hotel Bellwether brochure promising “love at first sight.”
She drops onto the seat and checks her reflection on the iPad.
The legendary bench is smaller than it looks in photos. Cozy. Intimate by design.
I sit down beside her, and there’s nowhere for my legs to go that isn’t directly against hers. For a beat, I get caught in the old-world charm(or maybe it’s our thighs touching). Either way, I break the spell.
“You chose the Lovers’ Bench. Got romance on the brain?”
“Not a chance,” she snaps. But she also doesn’t move.
Ivy angles the iPad so I’m out of frame. I shift closer. She compensates. I move again. She contorts herself into a backbend to keep me out of the shot.
“Are you five?” I ask.
She puts her hand on my bicep(hello, soft hands)and pushes me away. “I reserve my best behavior for people who earn it.”
I reach around her, grip her waist, and move her to the center of the frame. She grumbles. My arm stays locked around her middle, pulling her against my side and anchoring her in place (she started it).
