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“Us cretins from Hialeah are a resourceful people,” she joked. “What’s the plan?”
Using the room set up for headshots, they managed only to get through their two formal outfits before realizing there was no natural environment for candids.
Reagan pulled o her mint green linen jacket as she followed Libby to her o ce. “We can change, have breakfast, and then change again and head to the beach,” she suggested.
Kicking o her heels and grabbing her hair iron, Libby agreed. “There’s a little bistro a few blocks away. They make an unbelievable Croque Madame,” she suggested, plugging in her straighter.
“Sounds good to me,” she agreed, milling through her bag before coming out with a pair of jeans and a soft-looking gray T-shirt. “Where can I change?”
While Reagan changed in her private bathroom, Libby used the mirror behind her o ce door to remove her eyeshadow. As she transitioned from evening to daytime natural, she decided on a mustard-colored maxi dress and paired it with sandals for a casual aesthetic. When she’d finished ironing the waves out of her hair, she noticed the missed calls and frantic texts from Taylor. After assuring her they were fine and reminding her a flat tire wasn’t her fault, Libby insisted that she take the morning o after working so late the night before.
“Wow, you look beautiful,” Reagan said as she slipped back into the room.
Libby spun around from where she’d been digging in her makeup bag for lip gloss. The compliment warmed her cheeks, and she hoped the blush she’d applied covered most of the flush. “Thanks,” she replied, wanting to tell Reagan that she looked very attractive too, but was unsure how to formulate the words. “You too,” she added hastily. “I didn’t know you had tattoos.”
Reagan glanced down at the ink half-revealed by the end of her short sleeve. “Is that a deal-breaker?” she asked with a lopsided smile.
“I suppose it depends on what it is,” she joked as she inched forward.
Chuckling, Reagan pulled up her sleeve to reveal a very nicely toned arm and a colorful rooster surrounded by flowers. The scene circled her arm and disappeared into her shoulder.
Resisting the urge to trace the lines of the beautiful design, Libby engaged her other curiosity. “Why a rooster?”
“It’s my Chinese horoscope,” she confessed. “What’s yours?”
Libby regretted not having pegged her sign immediately, but the last twelve hours had been a whirlwind with no time to reflect on anything. Astrology was a significant part of her matchmaking, and Reagan displayed all the easy confidence of a rooster. She wiggled her eyebrows before responding, already knowing they were a good match, at least theoretically. “Dragon.”
“I might have guessed,” she replied before her eyes dipped down to her lips in a way that warmed more than just Libby’s cheeks. “It explains that low-key intensity bubbling just beneath the surface.” Before Libby’s stunned brain could come up with a response, Reagan turned toward her bags.
“We can take all this stu if you want to change a few more times.”
Still speechless, Libby nodded, and a few minutes later they were back in the garage dropping their things o before walking to breakfast.
BREAKFAST WAS SPENT CRAMMED TOGETHER IN A TINY ROUND TABLE
wedged between the wall and a refrigerated case full of colorful and elegant pastries as busy patrons streamed in and out picking up to-go orders. Their meal flew by as they chatted about their work and current events without any lull in the conversation. Despite Libby’s protestations, Reagan bought one of everything to take with them for later.
“Where to next?” Reagan asked, gently swinging the paper bag full of French treats as they strolled full-bellied back to Libby’s o ce. “I don’t think three outfits and settings are going to cut it.”
Libby glanced at the time. “Not too many options before nine in the morning on a Wednesday.”
“Says you,” Reagan replied before snapping an unexpected picture of Libby. “How do you feel about kites?”
“I don’t know if I have any strong feelings on the topic,”
she decided with a lopsided grin.
“Then I guess it’s my job to get you to commit one way or the other,” Reagan replied with an unexpectedly sober tone.
When they returned to the parking garage, Reagan insisted on driving rather than following each other in separate cars. The inside of the orange truck was pristine, and the white leather seats gleamed as much as the chrome dashboard.
“I take it you’re an automobile enthusiast,” Libby said as Reagan pulled out of the side street and into bumper-to-bumper tra c.
Reagan ran her fingers through her short hair. “I don’t know a single thing about cars,” she confessed, “but this looks pretty cool, right?”
When they arrived at the sprawling green gash in the otherwise sterile cityscape, Libby realized she hadn’t set foot in a park in a decade.
Before they got more than a few steps from the truck, Reagan stopped walking. “Should we change? I have like a dozen snaps with this on.”
