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Using one of the tricks I learned over the years, I let my mind wander and for the last few days that means a skip through memories of Logan in his gym shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt. Since I saw him in the gym the other morning, I don’t seem to be able to think of much else. The way the thin cotton fabric clung like a second skin to his toned chest and broad shoulders. I wish he wasn’t so goddamn good-looking because I’m beginning to feel like fifteen-year-old me, when I was a little obsessed with him.
Logan has changed, and it’s not just his body. It’s obvious he’s no stranger to a workout. Back in high school, he was fit but in a lean teenage boy kind of way. Nothing like the man he is now. All six foot, five inches of brawn.
It’s a shame his good looks are wasted with his standoffish personality. Since we graduated, I’ve probably only seen Logan about a dozen times. Now he’s right down the hall and I’m more aware of how much he’s changed. He seems to have isolated himself behind an impenetrable wall of dark silent broodiness that compels me to want to make him smile. Not that my mission has been very successful so far.
A loud clap startles me. It’s about time; the photographer has decided to grace us with his presence again. No word of explanation for having disappeared and no apology. I swear when my business is up and running, I’ll be making sure I treat the models and staff with respect, rather than as plastic mannequins or inferior minions.
Just like my mentor and friend Jacques Rousse, a highly accomplished French photographer, treats everyone who comes through his studio. He’s the best of the best and still takes the time to get to know his models and staff. That’s how he learned of my own interest in photography. Before I met Jacques, taking photos of cities and friends was an enjoyable hobby. But he was the one who encouraged my interest in making it into so much more. It was nearly a year ago that I finally completed my Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography at the Paris College of Art. Somehow over six years I managed to eke out enough time from my busy schedule to complete the degree part time. It taught me the technical aspects and Jacques gave me the practical experience. I adore Jacques. He’s like the father I wish I had, instead of the man who claimed that role.
About thirty minutes later and I’m done. I run my hands down the sides of my own tight jeans and my earlier annoyance instantly dissolves. I feel like me again, not a character playing a part.
Pulling a brush from my tote, I drag it roughly through my hair before giving up and tying it back into a loose bun. It will have to do until I can get home. My hand stills, since when did I start thinking of Logan’s place as home? My brow furrows, it’s been two weeks and I feel way too comfortable in Logan’s guest room.
I step out through the glass doors of the studio, looking left, then right. The sounds of clicking cameras are way too familiar. Paparazzi are always hanging around outside this studio hoping to catch a compromising moment or that picture of a celebrity looking less than perfect. I’ve hated this part of the job for so long it barely registers. I know I’m always one scandal, one bad photo, or a quote taken out of context, away from being canceled. I smile to myself before striding down the sidewalk. They can click all they want today because I’ve just finished my last assignment and now that it’s done I’m almost skipping.
Halfway down the block my cell rings. I scramble about in my large tote, finally snagging it with my fingertips.
A smile breaks out across my lips when I see the name of the caller on my screen. “Katie. This is a nice surprise.”
“Hey, hun. Top of the morning to you.” I laugh at her attempt at an English accent. I have plenty of friends from Britain and they never sound this ridiculous.
With a smile still on my lips, I say, “It’s the afternoon, and please tell me you aren’t speaking like that in front of any of your staff.”
Her laughter trickles through my earbuds. “No, I save it all for you. How are you? I hate that you’re so far away now.”
“I know. You and Sarah feel like you’re on the other side of the world. Wait, you almost are, in England. I miss you guys,” I joke.
“I miss you too. Especially our weekends in Paris.” Katie hasn’t been living in London all that long but the three of us still managed to catch up for a couple of weekends in Paris before I left. Lots of shopping, eating in the best restaurants, and the chance to meet some very sexy French men. Ooh La La.
“We can still do that. Let’s make plans for early next year. I miss Paris too, although I’m happy to be home now.” I take a breath before rushing on. “Hey, guess what?”
Her laughter travels down the line again. “What?”
“I just finished my last assignment. Can you believe that? I’m done and I can’t wait to get started with my new career.”
“Yah! I’m excited for you. Everything is working out just as you planned. And speaking of your move, how are things going with you and my brother? Is he playing nice?”
I smile and a guy walking along the sidewalk in the opposite direction smiles back. I look down a little embarrassed. “Early days, my friend. But we haven’t killed each other yet. I’d say that’s a major achievement for Logan and me.”
She chuckles, knowing well what her brother and I are like when we get together.
“And speaking of difficult men, have you heard from Drew yet?”
“Crickets.” Her voice is low, no longer cheerful like she was a few minutes ago. She really has been hurt by her one-night stand man who turned out to be the latest bestselling author Carlson Publishing wanted to sign a contract with.
I’m kicking myself for mentioning him now. Although I’d feel better kicking the guy responsible for making my friend sad. “When are you expecting him to drop into the office again?”
“At least another couple of months.”
Last time I saw Katie we talked well into the early hours, and she filled me in on everything that had happened with Drew. The guy’s obviously an idiot if he doesn’t recognize how lucky he is to have caught Katie’s eye. She’s possibly even more discerning than I am when it comes to dating.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling at a loss for words to make my friend feel better.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine. But hey, let’s not talk about him. Tell me, how are you planning to celebrate the end of an era?” In true Katie style, she’s always thinking of others ahead of her own problems. We talk for as long as it takes me to walk two more city blocks toward the busier Midtown streets when the background noise of traffic, people talking, and honking horns makes it harder to hear.
Promising to speak soon, I disconnect and at the next crossroads, I turn right. It’s a different route back to the apartment and because I’m in no rush, I’m happy to wander past the brightly lit shop windows, each one an Aladdin’s cave of pretty things. A little way down the street I pass a new home décor store. I’m a sucker for homewares, particularly beautiful cushions. My eye is drawn to a sofa in the window. It’s almost identical to Logan’s. The same tan color only in fabric where Logan’s sofa is soft, no doubt expensive, leather. And where his is unadorned, this one has a collection of beautiful cushions in complimentary colors and textured fabrics. On one of the sofa arms is a thick charcoal throw with cream fringing that I can see myself wrapped in before curling up to watch a movie on his giant flat-screen.
It’s only been a couple of weeks, but already I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s a workaholic or maybe he has a woman that he visits. Either way, he isn’t home much, and a night relaxing on his sofa alone is becoming quite normal. I do know he comes home on a daily basis because I’ll hear him moving about very late or I’ll find a mug or glass in the dishwasher the next morning when I place mine there. Evidence of a very early start.
