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Doesn’t matter. I’m doing this to promote—and save—the festival, which in turn appeases Weatherby, which in turn will give me the Dahlen case. Which betters the chances I’ll make partner. That I get to spend time with Aria is a very fortunate bonus, not that she sees it as such.
We’ve already gotten our pictures taken in those terrible Christmas blazers, and now we’ve traveled back in time to old London.
There’s a brisk knock and then Liz bursts into the room. She clutches her neck. “What a dapper man about town you are!”
I offer a chuckle, but I’m nervous. I’ve sort of milked my looks, okay? I learned from an early age how to do that.
Healthy? No. Effective? Sometimes.
But now? I don’t know what to think. I’m like an old-fashioned penguin. I feel naked, which is saying something since I’m clearly overdressed.
I feel vulnerable.
And I don’t do vulnerable.
Liz grasps my arm. “Aria’s nearly ready. You two are going to sell tickets, I tell you what!” She drags me out of the dressing room, down the hall, and into the portrait studio, which is set up to look like a snowy mid-nineteenth century London street.
I’m fussed over, so many older women poking at my suit, smoothing it out, and arguing over whether or not I should be holding a hat under my arm for the photos.
“We ready to start?” I ask the growing crowd. I smile about it—might as well embrace it—but all I can think about is how I need some billable hours at the firm. And this? There are no billable hours happening. I’m not making a dime right now.
Which is tough. But I have to remember it’s an investment into my future.
“Such a handsome brow,” one of the women says.
“Reminds me of Superman in that movie,Somewhere in Time.”
“That actor’s name was Christopher Reeve, and it took place about sixty years after this time period,” Marjorie scolds.
I start to laugh, but that’s when Aria comes into view. My breath hitches. She’s standing in the corner of the room wearing a dark-red velvet ball gown.
I’m by her side before I know it. Her long, dark hair is pinned up and her dress is off the shoulder, her neckline bare. I’ve never noticed the shell shape of her ears before. And her warm, tan skin and luminous eyes are magnets pulling me to her. I can’t look away.
“You look—” I stop myself. Aria’s not like other women who respond to compliments. She may or may not appreciate me gushing over her. But I can’t help it. She’s breathtaking. If I was drawn to her before, that was nothing compared to what’s going on now.
I clear my throat. “You look enchanting.” I offer a little bow that fits the esthetic of the photoshoot. Maybe if I get into the part we can be done sooner.
“As do you, kind sir,” she says lifting a gloved hand.
I take it and press my lips to her fingers. She sears me with a look, but then takes in a deep breath.
“Curse the man, or whoever it was who dictated women’s fashion back then.” She places both hands on her waist. “Corsets.” She breathes out.
Her waist is sculpted, the fabric of her dress pleats circling and cinching her in tightly. “I’m sure it’s torture to wear. But you look—”
“Speechless again?” She laughs, and the ringlets framing her face bounce from side to side. This look isn’t supposed to work. It’s old-fashioned with a capitalO. On anyone else, it’s comical. A costume.
On Aria? It’s unbelievably beautiful.
“Okay, you two. Let’s get started,” the photographer’s assistant says.
We pose next to a brick backdrop dusted with fake snow. I’m asked to place my hand on her back, and I breathe in her strawberry scent.
“You’re both tall, so you pull off this style incredibly well,” the photographer says from behind the camera.
“They’re such a beautiful couple,” says Liz with a sigh.
A couple? She remembers this is only for promotional purposes, right? Not that I would mind exploring couple-like opportunities with Aria. She excites me endlessly. But she’s more of a serious relationship kind of person. And I am not.
