“Speak for yourself,” he grumbled.
“I always do. Nick, it’s working,” she said. She pulled up her Instagram account and held her phone up for him to see. “About two hundred new followers since I went to sleep. Which wasn’t that long ago, seeing assomeonewanted to get up at the ass crack of dawn to take more photos.”
“Weird way to say thank you, but okay,” he interjected, and she stuck her tongue out at him. He stared at her mouth for a split second, as though a grown woman sticking her tongue out at him was an affront to his most delicate sensibilities, then rubbed a hand over his hair and redirected his gaze to the lobby door. “Let’s get started.”
Nick walked down the dunes in groggy silence, and he let her get a few paces in front of him so he could get a few shots of her walking down the slope, the back of her long, freckled neck exposed by her high bun. A few wisps of curly red hair had already escaped it and were floating behind her on the morning breeze. He had a sudden urge to reach out and brush them away. Tuck them back into the bun. Let his fingertips slide over the smooth, downy skin and tangle in the rebellious orange-red chaos that was her hair.
That’s insane,he told himself.You’re only thinking that because you’ve seen her tongue this morning. And not in a sexy way, in a juvenile go-to-hell kind of way.
He cleared his throat, and she turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.
“Is something wrong already? Is this perfect morning not perfect enough for you?” She swept one arm out to gesture over the almost deserted beach. The sky above the horizon was a promising golden pink, and there were already a dozen surfers out on their boards.
“No, it’s great,” he said tersely. “Why don’t you go stand between the flags, and I’ll stay up here?”
He’d get close-ups later. Right now, he needed to put some physical distance between them, and wide shots seemed like an obvious way to do it.
He cleared his throat again as she dropped her tote bag and shoes on the sand next to him and walked away, casting him a curious look as she went. He fiddled with his camera, keeping his eyes averted so that he wouldn’t have to watch her calf muscles flex under her skin as she walked down the beach. After spending an hour poring over the photos he’d taken yesterday—an hour was all she’d give him for editing, queen of patience that she was—he felt like he had her legs memorized. Which meant he knew that, yes, she had stretch marks on the insides of her thighs. And a constellation of freckles on her right shin that formed a small isosceles triangle. And he had noticed all these things not because he wanted to see them or know them but because he was a photographer, and because he’d promised to try to help her. To help both of them, really. He hadn’t woken up to as many new followers as she had this morning, but he’d picked up a few dozen. This professional marriage of convenience might actually pay off.
“What are you waiting for?” her impatient voice drifted up the beach, and he started.
“Sorry, your highness,” he called back, and he sensed rather than saw her epic eye roll.
He raised the camera and found her, positioned precisely between the red and yellow surf lifesavers’ flags, which were rippling gently in the placid morning breeze.
As he watched, she knelt in the sand and extended one long leg behind her body, arching her spine back until she was looking straight up at the sky.
“Nice,” he murmured to himself, snapping half a dozen shots of her there. “Do that again, but slower,” he called down, and when she righted herself and then leaned back again, he caught the whole, languorous movement frame by frame. The motion had lifted her sweatshirt at the front, and he could see a wide strip of exposed skin above the waistband of her shorts.
“That’ll do,” he called, and as she straightened again, the skin disappeared. Scooping up her things, he headed down the beach to join her. Above the churning waves, the sky was brightening to a rich, glowing peach, fading into a cool inky blue. They probably had a few more minutes until the sun came up and the light changed all over again. Perhaps they should try a few shots over by the ocean pool before then.
“Heather said there’s a pool down there,” Carly said, squinting towards the north end of the beach. “Could be an interesting backdrop.”
He nodded, resisting the urge to tell her it had been his idea first. They made their way to the end of the beach and towards the little concrete track that led around to the pool. Lots of Sydney beaches had lap pools built into the cliffs like this so you could swim laps in calm saltwater that was continually refreshed by the waves. It had been years since he’d been in one, but he still remembered the eerie feeling of being so close to the roiling crashing waves and spraying foam but being entirely safe and protected in the water.
Again he let her walk in front of him, and again he couldn’t keep his eyes from the stray strands of hair that danced around her neck as she moved. He clenched his jaw, pressed his fingers against the hard plastic of the camera, and dragged his eyes away to look out over the water.
When they arrived at the pool, they found it empty except for a lone swimmer, a woman in a one-piece swimming costume swimming slow, lazy laps of backstroke. Carly watched her for a few seconds, then took in the entire view: the pool built into the cliffside, the waves moving steadily towards the beach, the blue sky shot through with wide streaks of pearly pink and glowing orange.
“Hell of a way to work out,” she said, shaking her head in awe. “No wonder Heather fell in love with it, all of it.”
“Mmm,” he said noncommittally.
She turned over her shoulder and looked at him appraisingly, her cheeks and forehead bathed in the warm morning light. “Why did you ever leave again?”
“Not a lot of dance jobs going in Australia,” he said grimly. He’d had no choice but to leave—first his hometown and then the whole country. He’d been thrilled to do it, too, eager to go off in search of the kinds of adventure he was sure he could never have if he stayed home. But now he was back, and not the same person he was when he went away. And this place wasn’t the same place he had left, either.
“Interesting,” she said skeptically. “I just assumed they kicked you out.”
“We aren’t all lucky enough to have multiple world-class ballet companies in our hometowns,” he said. “Australia’s small, and sports obsessed. Lots of artists leave and never come back. Marcus is a rare exception.”
She opened her mouth to reply, no doubt with some kind of quip, but he cut her off.
“We’ll lose this light soon. Let’s get back to work.” She straightened up and gave him a mock salute, then dropped her bag at his feet and walked around to the other side of the pool. Honestly, the cheek on this woman, who just yesterday had begged him for his help. Wasn’t he the one who’d volunteered to wake up at some ungodly hour to do this for her? He switched the camera back on and followed her around the pool, stopping about five feet away from where she stood with one hand on the railing that separated the even concrete pool deck and the jagged rock formations.
“Nice place to do barre,” she said, arranging her feet in a tight fifth position and lifting her chin. In her bike shorts and faded old NYB jumper, she did look ready to start a morning ballet class, and when he lifted the camera up to his face, she pulled her shoulders down and looked into the lens with such intensity that he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d made piano music materialize on the beach out of sheer will.
“Go on then,” he said from behind the camera, unable to stop his mouth from curving into a smile. She grinned, flashing straight white teeth, then lowered herself into a demi-plié, letting her free arm drift languidly out beside her. It was the simplest movement, something the both of them had done every day since they were children, but there it was again: the same energy he’d seen in the photos he’d taken yesterday. She had probably done thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of pliés in her life, but she looked delighted to be doing this one. Whatever else Carly Montgomery loved or hated in this world, one thing was clear from watching her complete a single demi-plié: the woman loved to dance.
