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“Jonah. Come on. It’s cold and you’re being insane. Is he bothering you?” The woman he’s with pipes up from behind him, and I lean over to make eye contact. His sister, Christine. I knew it. I snapped a photo of them going in to the restaurant earlier, but I couldn’t catch more than her profile. Boring. Why can’t the man just go on one date and let me take a photo of it?
“Don’t look at her.” His hand comes down on the car next to me, and I startle. “Don’t even breathe in her direction.” He’s angry. Understandable, but irritation rises all the same at the way he’s crowding me. I’ve been threatened before, sometimes while taking photos, other times just because I was asking questions for an article. The general public might read the news, but they sure as hell don’t trust reporters.
I suspected he was an asshole, but this confirms it. Presumptuous jerk. He’s way too handsome for his own good. Those black eyes invite you to sin. That silky hair makes your fingers itch to touch it. Not my fingers, of course. I don’t go for assholes. Not anymore.
My eyes narrow on him. I might hate being a part-time paparazzi, but I also hate how celebrities think they’re better than you. Jonah Crown thinks he can threaten me into stopping. He has no idea what my life is like. No clue that I need these pictures and this money. I take a deep breath. Don’t be mad. Don’t give him ammunition.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with admirable calm. “You’re blocking my shot.”
“This isn’t over.” He backs away, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so hard it looks like he might break a tooth.
“Have a great night,” I call out as he strides away.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I slump against the car, shaky from the adrenaline. Damn. I can’t believe he saw me. I was distracted by the texts, and I didn’t think he’d eat so fast. I’ve never been spotted before, though Jonah might be the first person who has ever cared to try.
Great. I settle my camera bag on my shoulder and start the walk back to my apartment. I’ll have to get a new hat now, or a disguise or something. Jonah isn’t going to let this go, and I’m not going to quit. It seems we’re at an impasse. I smile to myself. One crazed billionaire isn’t going to stop me.
* * *
It’s a healthy thirty-minute walk back to the apartment I share with my dad. We might only live twenty blocks north of Jonah, but it’s a world away. From what I’ve seen, his townhouse is the epitome of luxury, while our apartment is the definition of faded comfort. When I enter into the living room, my dad is on the couch with a baseball game on, his trusty Mets cap settled firmly on his head.
“How’s the game?”
“They’re not playing well,” he grumbles. “Benitez can’t get his head out of the clouds. Oh, come on.” He throws his hands up at the TV, and I grin. My father yelling at baseball is a staple in this house.
“Did you eat?” I set my camera bag on the dining table. Our living space and kitchen are connected, like they are in many New York City apartments.
“Yeah. I had some pizza. And before you start in on me, I took off half the cheese.”
“Dad, come on. You know you’re supposed to be eating vegetables.” After his heart attack over the summer, the doctor put him on a strict diet, one I’ve been trying to enforce while living here.
“Tomorrow, Cal.” He waves his hand in the air. “There’s some pizza left for you if you want it.”
I sigh, but grab a slice from the box on the counter. It’s from our favorite place on 98th and Broadway. I’ve been eating pizza from Little Italy Pizza since I can remember. It’s thin crust, with lots of cheese, in big pies. Just the way I like it. I chew and flip through my photos. I was downtown yesterday, trying to get shots of an A-list actress who was filming in the West Village. She’s known for her public tantrums, but I didn’t get more than a few boring shots of her in full makeup and hair for the shoot. The photos of Jonah are great, though. Him ducking out of his car, looking elegant and annoyed. Him hugging his sister. Her outfit is perfect—bright red boots, blue denim, and a cropped jacket. He’s intensely private, so photos of him with family will sell. Matt over at Green Media might even be interested. They’ll want an exclusive, though, so I’ll need to be back out there tomorrow getting more photos. I have some shots from yesterday of Jonah at lunch with a stunning brunette, but I want more information on who she is before I publish them.
I finish my pizza and settle in at my laptop to upload the photos and email Matt. I hate dealing with Green Media, but no one pays more for photos. They might be picky, but they are always eager for photos of Jonah.
Matt responds to my email with a yes in all caps, which makes me smile. Matt’s a good guy. He went to Columbia with me, and he was a total fish out of water. Just a guy from Indiana trying to make it in the big city. I took him under my wing, and now he helps me out when he can. He hates Green Media, though. They’re known for firing people if you make even one wrong move. Matt needs the money, with his student loans, so he’s stuck in a shitty situation.
Can’t say I blame him. My student loans are set to the minimum payment right now. Even with all the grant money I received, and the fact that I lived at home, journalism school was not cheap.
And I’m so not going to think about that right now. I’m just going to edit the photos from dinner tonight and make sure they’re as good as possible for Matt. And for the money. Maybe I’ll make a dent in those student loans after all.
3
Callie
He’s late today. It’s 5:03 a.m. and Jonah Crown would normally have ducked into his chauffeured car three minutes ago. I tug my beanie down onto my forehead and pull the hood of my jacket up. It’s only October in the Upper West Side, but it’s freezing at this hour. And my butt is going numb. I resettle on the steps of the brownstone across from his townhouse and try to shake some warmth back into my legs. I’m partially hidden by the low wall that extends from the steps of the building, but I have a clear shot to his front door and the reserved parking space in front of his building. I have no idea who he had to bribe to get a reserved parking space, but it’s the only one I’m aware of for an individual on the entire island of Manhattan. And he doesn’t even drive. No, he has one of a fleet of stealthy black cars pick him up every morning and bring him home every night. At least four different cars. I know, because I’ve made note of the license plates. Not intentionally, because I’m not a stalker, but idly, because I pay attention to details and have nothing better to do in the dark morning hours.
5:05 a.m. Come on, Jonah. All this waiting for one photo, maybe two. If I’m lucky, he’ll be wearing a suit with no jacket. He looks like a fashion model in those bespoke suits, even with that perpetual frown. One spring morning, I was lucky enough to catch him in running shorts with no shirt. I finally needed to turn the comments off on that article, because they were getting explicit. One woman even put her cell phone number down.
5:07 a.m. Maybe he isn’t coming. I groan into the crisp air. Getting up at four a.m. for this is bad enough, but to come home empty-handed? Not an option. Green Media is paying handsomely for the photo from yesterday, but I have nothing to print in our next run. I haven’t published anything about Jonah in weeks, and we’re overdue. He’s our star.
The door to his townhouse swings open and I sit up straighter, camera at the ready. Oh, he looks good today. He always does, which is why these photos rake in more money than anything else, but today he looks especially gorgeous. Gorgeous and cold. Almost like he knew I would be here. I lift the camera and view him on the screen. Dark, silky hair, those cut cheekbones and full lips, a navy bespoke suit, fathomless eyes. Satan himself. I shiver and snap photos as quickly as I can. I don’t want another confrontation. Not because he intimidates me, because he doesn’t, but because it will definitely blow my cover this time.
He has two tumblers in his hands. Odd. I’ve never seen him do that before. Maybe he’s meeting someone? His driver pulls forward, but Jonah steps into the street and looks right at me. My hands jerk, and the shutter clicks. The shot won’t be usable. How can he even see me? I’m hidden by an absurdly large planter and half of a wall. But he’s stalking toward me, and I scramble to stuff my camera into my backpack and whip out my phone, like I’m just another resident of 87th Street and Central Park West.
He stops at the bottom of the steps, his expression icy with distaste. His brows are drawn low, his lips sneering. I have the absurd urge to scramble to my feet, but it will make me look guilty.
