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All I can do is freeze and stare at Mr. Fucking Gorgeous. A moment later, I squeak, “I’m the photographer.”
Without diminishing his smile, he motions to an older woman in her fifties nearby, and she walks toward me, wearing enough diamonds to stock a high-end jewelry store all by herself.
“Paige Reyes?” she asks, eyeing my messy bun. When I nod, she shoos Mr. Fucking Gorgeous away. “Anastasia Novikov. Follow me.”
I stumble a little when we enter the main hall, where more guests are arriving. If I hadn’t just walked through a door, I would’ve thought I was outside in a garden. The entire foyer is covered in fresh roses of all shades, from blinding white to deep red, creating an ombre effect from ceiling to floor. Reaching out, I brush my finger against a pink bloom.
Oh yeah, definitely real.
I catch up to Anastasia, who is moving quickly in her turquoise heels. “Should I take pictures of the guests as they arrive?” I ask.
She shakes her head stiffly. “Not everyone wants their picture taken.”
What the hell kind of wedding is this? But something about the way she says it makes me think better than to ask.
“Just focus on the bride and groom,” she continues. “Later, when everyone is seated for the reception, we will take pictures of the bridal party in the hall.Iwant pictures of the roses. They cost my husband Fyodor a hundred grand, and I want to rub it in his face.”
Damn. I should’ve asked for more money. The flowers are being paid more than I am.
Anastasia guides me toward the head table situated at the far end of the room. Periodically, I check out my surroundings; the men standing at attention near the walls hold my interest. Dressed in handsome dark suits, their sharp eyes watch everything that moves in the room. Tattoos decorate their hands and neck.
Yeah, definitely not a normal wedding.
But my eyes are searching for something else.
Check that,someoneelse. I scan for Mr. Fucking Gorgeous, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Swallowing my disappointment, I turn my attention back to Anastasia and approach the cheerful bride. Her glossy brown hair cascades over her bare shoulders. A crown of diamonds creates a convincing halo above her head. Her satin dress accents her curves perfectly, and I can’t help but feel a wave of jealousy. I had a hard time picturing my wedding day with Tim. I took plenty of photos of other weddings. But somehow, I was never able to imagine my own.
And besides, I could never have a wedding as lavish as this. Heck, I can barely afford a reception at Taco Bell.
The bride greets an elderly couple, and they slip an envelope into a box decorated with gold wrapping paper. I hold up my camera, and the bride nods slightly. I didn’t realize she was watching me. I step closer, and the elderly couple embraces her on either side. The handsome groom steps forward to get into the picture.
Absolutely perfect.
For today, my mantra is to suck it up. This is how my life plays out. I smile as if I’m actually happy to be here and point the Nikon at the bride and the groom, and wish that Mr. Fucking Gorgeous was the one in the frame.
Chapter 3
Paige
“Smile.” I press the release. “It’s your happy day.”
Quickly, I learn how to navigate the room. Holding up my camera, I wait for a nod of approval before I snap a shot. Most people nod, but a few pretend to ignore me and turn away.
An older man sits beside a woman who looks as if she wants it to be over already. Their table is placed to the left of the bride, so maybe they are her grandparents? The man holds a steady scowl, but the woman is attractive with a sweep of silvery blonde hair and a navy dress that fits her slim figure.
I’d like to look just like her when I’m her age.
I hold up the camera and wait for a nod. The woman looks startled, as if I caught her picking her nose. The man actually growls, and swiftly, a hand grips my shoulder and spins me away. The scary man with the scar reappears by my side, and I clutch my camera to my chest for protection.
He shakes his head. “Not that table.” His frown shifts into a smirk, pleased that he is terrifying me. “The younger people like having their pictures taken.”
I practically run to the back of the room, where people my age are taking selfies. They’re all pretty and wearing amazing dresses. Feeling shy, my smile is forced as I hold up my camera. Thankfully, I’m greeted with immediate yelps of delight as the girls strike giddy poses. Soon, I find myself laughing with them as I take one picture after another.
A brunette pouts. “I want a picture in the hallway in front of all those roses.”
“It’s Varya’s wedding,” a redhead replies. “She’ll have you shot if you take a picture there before her.”
