Behind His Lens(43)

Everything was falling into place; we were acknowledging the connection between us, we were thriving off of it. Then she withdrew. The second we returned to VIP, she recoiled and we moved back to square one. I feel like I’m at a complete loss. I want to force her to face her fears, but I know that won’t work. She’s like a wild horse; I have to slowly coax her away from the isolated life she’s made for herself. I know she’s had it hard; I can see it behind her eyes, but she can’t hide forever, and I want to be the person that saves her. I want her to be mine.

The vibrations from my phone stir me out of my thoughts and I glance down to see it’s a work call. Really, on a Sunday morning? Then I realize I’m in my office, checking work emails.

Whatever, they don’t know that. I tap my thumb against the sleek, modern desk as I swipe a finger across the screen and answer the call.

Why is the director of my upcoming shoot calling me so early on the weekend? If they’re changing the location from Hawaii, I’ll drop. That’s the only reason I agreed to do the job in the first place.

“What can I do for you, Ryan?” I ask in a clipped tone.

“Candace is out of the shoot.”

“What? Are you joking? She was picked for the cover!” The shoot in Hawaii is for a prominent men’s sports magazine. Every year they do a swimsuit issue boasting some of the sexiest women in the entertainment world. Candace Hill was picked for the cover after a painfully long and drawn out elimination process months ago.

“Yeah, well when you’re nursing injuries from a motorcycle accident, you can’t really model bikinis,” he barks. Oh man does he sound pissed. The photo shoot is next week and we’re out of a cover model.

“She rides a motorcycle?”

“Her rocker boyfriend was driving and she wasn’t wearing leathers, so she has road rash, but nothing too serious.”

I drag my hand through my hair, staring off at the canvas photo hanging across from my desk. A small boy with sad eyes stares back at me.

“So we’ll bump one of the girls from a centerfold to the cover?” Normally photographers aren’t involved with the casting process, but I’ve made a name for myself in the past few years. I’ve got a good eye and it commands top dollar.

“Looks like we’ll have to, but there’s no one that feels right for it.”

I close my eyes, envisioning crystal blue eyes, bright blonde hair, and golden ivory skin.

“Wait, Ryan. Look up Charley Whitlock.”

Oh shit. Did I really just offer her name to him? It was impulsive, spurred on from my desire for her, but now it’s too late to ignore my suggestion. I lose focus on the photo across my desk once again, waiting for his reply.

“I’ve heard that name before,” he admits. The sound of clicking echoes through the phone as he types her name into Google.

A moment later, there’s a loud thud and I’m sure he’s slammed his hand on the desk. “What the hell. Why wasn’t she brought up when we were doing first rounds?”

“She isn’t famous or dating a famous person.”

“Yeah? Well she will be after this. She’s got it. I want her for the cover.”


“Good. You’d be an idiot to choose anyone else.”

“I’ve gotta go and call her agent. For all I know, she’s already booked.”

“See you on the plane.”

“Yeah, thanks, Anderson.”

When the line goes dead, I toss the phone onto the table and recline back into my black leather chair. Was that a good idea, or did I just complicate things even more with Charley? If she accepts, which she’d be insane not to, we’ll be in Hawaii together for three days. So much for taking it slow.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Charley

With a contented sigh I push my apartment door open and slip my heavy keys onto the chipped ceramic holder hanging on the wall. I woke up early and ran until my limbs ached. I hadn’t realized how far I’d actually gone until I looked at my exercise watch a moment ago: 13 miles, almost half of a marathon. I was hoping the run would take longer, but the endorphins definitely helped. I’ll just have to ride on their momentum as long as possible.

Maybe after I shower I’ll go down to a bookstore and browse around for something to take my mind off of last night. I can’t let myself think about it. Every few seconds, when something threatens to remind me of Jude, I shut it down and carve out a new thought from my brain. It’s torturous but necessary if I don’t want to spend the entire day wallowing in self pity, which I don’t.