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Our spirited debate over photo styles continued as we hashed out opinions on everything from what he would wear to what filters I planned to use. Ryker's imposing form loomed closer, insisting on his elegant, polished angle, as befitting a CEO. But I held my ground, pushing him to at least incorporate a warmer, more organic vibe, to humanize him and make him more relatable. Neither of us were willing to compromise, which wasn’t new.
We fought like cats and dogs as teenagers, too.
Forty five minutes flew by, and the more we sparred, the more the studio's atmosphere seemed to charge. Before I realized what was happening, our eyes collided with blistering intensity, our mouths just inches apart. I froze as his gaze flickered down to my lips. My breath stopped and heat curled in my belly. I so, so,soneeded to remain professional, but his close proximity was wreaking havoc on my senses.
"We'll have to continue this later," I said abruptly, backing up a step and checking my watch. "I have another client coming to look at the studio soon."
A lie, but I needed air.
I whirled away under the pretense of checking a camera setting, unsettled by his nearness. Taking a deep breath, I steadied my hands, slotting the camera lens in place with a decisive click.
When I turned back, Ryker was watching me with that intense gray gaze, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He'd clearly noticed my flustered state and was probably silently gloating about the effect he still had on me.
I straightened my spine and met his eyes challengingly, refusing to let him get under my skin. "I'll send over the shoot plan to your assistant and we can finalize everything via email, and set a date to meet up this week,” I said briskly, eager to get him out the door before I did something reckless.
“Sure. No problem, Daniels.” He complied with my request to leave without protest, his tone significantly less business-y than when he arrived. His expression was a mixture of unspoken messages I refused to acknowledge or examine.
As I walked him out, I was hyper aware of his hard body brushing against mine. At the door, he turned suddenly, leaning in close enough that I caught another whiff of his woodsy cologne.
"Don't let me down, Meg. This event means a lot for my company's image," he murmured, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips in a way that made my pulse skip.
I fought the urge to rise to his bait and kept my tone even. "The pictures will be stunning. Though I can't promise they'll adhere to your boring corporate aesthetic," I added, unable to resist being snarky.
Amusement flashed in Ryker's eyes. "We'll see about that," he replied cryptically. His fingers reached out fleetingly, as if he meant to touch my face, before he seemed to think better of it and pulled back.
With a final inscrutable look, he turned and strode out. The door clicked shut, leaving me reeling in his wake. Damn him for still having this effect on me. I couldn't afford to let my guard down... yet keeping Ryker at arm's length was proving craptastically harder than expected.
And it was only day one.
I released a shaky exhale. I needed these photos to impress, but put bluntly, I was terrified of being pulled back into Ryker's intoxicating orbit.
I didn’t need romantic entanglements, I needed to stay focused on building my business. I needed to do that forme, to put myself first for once.
I lost too many years to raising children––grown now and busy with their own lives––while giving my life to men who didn’t deserve me. Realizing that was a step in my healing I was damn proud of.
Which only meant this assignment just took on dangerous new weight and my skills as a photographer wasn’t the only thing on the line.
Crap, Daniels. Crap, crap, CRAP!
CHAPTER4
Ryker
The surfaceof the ocean shimmered under the afternoon rays, nearly blinding me as I stood stiffly in the sand, trying and failing to look relaxed. I wasn’t normally so uncomfortable in front of a camera, but I’d been having a hard time adjusting to old feelings surging to the surface since Meg blew ack into my life.
The woman in question was currently circling around me like we were playing a dizzying game of Ring Around the Roses. Her camera snapped shot after shot as she critiqued my rigid posture and made snarky suggestions.
“C’mon, loosen up a little, Mister CEO. You look like you're in front of a firing squad.” Her tone was teasing and I was annoyed at myself for feeling so off balance and worse, showing it.
But who could blame me?
My gaze was captivated by the woman in front of me. Meg had her hair thrown up in a messy bun, her bare feet kicking up sand, and the rest of her covered—regrettably—in snug ripped jeans and a cropped tank. Her shoulders were tanned with a light smattering of freckles, and her toned belly belied the fact that it ever carried children. Her hips and breasts were fuller–yep, I noticed–but other than that, today, she looked more like the Meg I used to know.
It was doing things to me I still wasn’t sure I welcomed.
I snorted, rolling my shoulders back and shaking out my arms. I was dressed in beachwear, black board shorts and a white tee, per her instructions. I’d decided to humor her, but told her if I hated the photos, they’d never see the light of day.
When she tossed another snarky “suggestion” at me, my brows jackknifed together and I growled, “Not all of us are comfortable dancing around like chirpy beach babes."
