“No way. The lighting here is just right.”
“What doyouknow about lighting?” she scoffs.
I rub the skin over my eyebrows. If Pippa keeps fighting every fucking thing I say, this is going to take all night.
She must have come to the same conclusion, because she sighs, picks up the furball, and sets it on the floor. It scowls at me before it trots off back toward its bedroom.
Pippa perches on the sofa, her knees pressed firmly together and her hands resting in her lap. Her spine is ruler-straight, her lips set in a firm line. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. If I’m going to take a picture of her that looks remotely welcoming or appealing, I havegotto get her to relax.
“Just hang there for a sec while I fix the lighting,” I tell her. After I sync up my phone with the speakers, I put on Gigi Perez. Immediately, the tension in Pippa’s shoulders disappears.
“I didn’t know you liked this album.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty good.” And I know for a fact that Pippa’s a big fan. I let the music help her unwind while I fiddle with the ring light. Once it’s lighting her face well, I grab the remote that controls the LED lights around the walls. I press a few buttons, and suddenly all the light not directed at Pippa’s face is as red as her lipstick.
“What is this, your fuck lighting?” she asks.
“No, it’s my vampire movie marathon lighting.Thisis my under-the-sea lighting.”
I press another button and the lights turn blue instead. Pippa laughs—a real, unguarded laugh, and I wish I’d been aiming the camera at her then, because the wide smile lights up her whole face.
“I want you to lie back on the sofa, with your legs draped over the arm,” I say.
She cocks her head. “But I would never sit like that.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s about avibe.”
“A vibe like I never learned how to sit on a sofa?”
“Yes, exactly. Men love dumb women. Show them how moronic you can be.”
She huffs out a breath, but follows instructions. I resist the urge to call her a good girl and make steam really come out of her ears. Pulling out my phone, I snap a few sample pictures, trying different angles. All the photos look staged and awkward, with Pippa’s legs held stiffly at a 90-degree angle, her hands still clenched in her lap for some fucking reason.
“Try moving your hands,” I suggest.
She puts one on her knee and dangles the other arm off the edge of the sofa. It manages to make her look both rigid and like she’s lost control of her limbs.
“Not like that. More relaxed.”
Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands behind her head, spreading out her elbows like she’s Ferris fucking Buehler.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I step over and grab her wrists. She gasps, clenching her fists and trying to get out of my grasp.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Helping you.” I pull one of her hands to her hip, the other next to her face. I literally unpeel her fingers until they look soft, open, and natural. “There you go. Much better.”
Pippa blinks up at me, and I’m suddenly all too aware that I’m hovering over her, our faces closer than they’ve been in a long fucking time. Her lips are slightly parted, her hazel eyes wide. She takes a shuddering breath, and her breasts press up against her sweater’s low neckline.
Shit. She looks hot as fuck, and with her soft hands in mine, I can’t help but notice it.
Gulping, I turn my gaze toward her legs. Now I’m thanking god that she wore tights, because if I feel her bare skin while I press her knees apart, I might be tempted to do something fucking stupid. Like kneel between them.
Taking one of her calves, I arrange her legs so one is crossed over the other. From where my camera is set up, I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of the red soles of her shoes.
“Good,” I say, the word feeling clumsy in my mouth. “Don’t move.”
I take a few steps back and pull up the camera on my phone. I can see her slender neck shift as she swallows. “I look okay?” she says quietly.
