Glancing through the open doorway that led into the studio portion of my little business, I thought back to the client I’d had this morning. The shoot today had gone really well, in spite of the rumors I’d heard about this girl. But whatever experiences other photographers had had with her, she’d been completely professional and pleasant in front of my lens, if a bit too young to be getting into this business.
Or, perhaps, I was just getting old.
I rubbed my forehead with the tips of my fingers in a vain effort to dispel the next thought, but it kept right on coming anyway…
In thirteen days, six hours, and four annnnd—I looked at the upper right-hand corner of my monitor—a half minutes, I’d be turning the big five-O.
Fifty.
Halfway to a hundred.
And for the first time in my life, I was beginning to feel it. And look it.
I had laugh lines appearing around my mouth and eyes. The skin on the back of my hands and eyelids was losing its elasticity. I was getting a double chin. My hair was more gray than brown (though I kept it professionally colored. Not quite ready to gothere, yet). And my body, which I’d finally learned to accept somewhere in my mid-thirties, was beginning to sag in places my forever size eighteen figure had never sagged.
The only good part about being my age? Five years ago, after spending one week every month in excruciating pain for the last nine years, my doctors had finally come to the conclusion that I needed a full hysterectomy.
Best. Surgery. Ever.
I’m not even kidding.
Though it did leave a nice, long, horizontal scar across my belly, which sets off the vertical stretch marks my two children left there nicely. All in all, I didn’t look twenty-something anymore. Or even thirty-something, for that matter.
And right up until this moment in time, I’d been pretty okay with that. But this upcoming birthday was hitting me hard.
Picking up my phone, I shook off the unpleasantness of my imminent leap into the next decade and checked the email that had just come in. It was from Stefanie Heathers, a romance author I’d worked with often, and someone I considered a very good friend. She needed some exclusive photos for one of her new covers, and per her usual mien, she had a model in mind. Perfect. That made my job a hundred percent easier. And it was one of the reasons I loved working with this particular author, who was also one of my best friends. Stef always knew exactly what she wanted, while also allowing me to have some creative rein.
I skimmed the email, picking up a few more details. She was going to be out of town for a few weeks for a signing/vacation, and she had already booked the model if I can squeeze them into my schedule—of course, I could—and the model she wanted was…
Tyler Hale.
My cheeks heated as my pulse picked up and a curious ache began to develop between my legs. I set my phone down and picked up the notebook lying next to my laptop, fanning my face as I tried to convince myself this was just a hot flash. Sweet Jesus. Just seeing his name was getting me all hot and bothered. I took a reinforcing lungful of oxygen. I was being silly, really. I’m a…mature woman, and fresh out of a fourteen-year marriage. And Tyler was probably, like, twenty-six, tops. A man who hadn’t even hit his prime yet. He could be my kid, for God’s sake.
I took another deep breath. I was being ridiculous, and unprofessional. Besides, what the hell would a guy like him see in me? I had tiger stripes on my drooping belly, my once firm jawline was disappearing into my neck, and my figure was rapidly descending into grandma territory.
Tyler, on the other hand, had a body as hard as a statue (I knew this because I accidentally walked into him at his last shoot) and probably hasn’t aged a day since I’d met him a year ago.
Getting my head back into the game, I emailed Stefanie back and let her know what days and times I was available, which was pretty much whenever she would need me. Then I set my phone down and tried to ignore the fluttering in my stomach. No matter how my pre-menopausal hormones (thanks to the estrogen patches the doctor prescribed until I turned fifty-five) reacted to Tyler, I was a professional. I would handle this shoot—
Professionally.
I repeated this mantra to myself as I went about packing up my laptop and my camera for the walk home. Tyler had only been in front of my lens once before, and he’d nearly melted the damn thing. The man isn’t even that good-looking, not like some of the guys I’d shot during my career. He’s tall. And he obviously works out, of course. Dark hair and eyes, with a skin tone that led me to believe he may be of some type of Middle Eastern descent. All in all, on the good-looking but average side of the looks department. But he had a certain charisma that came through in photos, and practically smothered you up close and personal. Like…Antonio Banderas. Whenever I saw a photo of Antonio, I was just kind of like, “Eh.” But I saw him once in real life when he was in town for a con or something, and I swear I would’ve fallen onto my knees and sucked him off right there in front of God and everybody if he’d so much as quirked a manicured finger in my general direction.
The effect Tyler Hale had on me was even worse. Muscled and tatted like the bad boy he probably was, he had eyes that pierced right through you. You know the kind I mean? Bedroom eyes. Eyes that looked at you and saw you naked. Hell, they singed the clothes from your body like lava.
I took another breath and focused on my laptop, opening up the file from yesterday’s bridal shoot. Enough with the daydreaming about something I’ll never have and don’t need, anyway. I had work to get done. And these photos were going to take some major editing to come off looking the least bit like the happiest day of their lives.
Nothing like an angry bride to cool off my inappropriate libido.
* * *
The next twoweeks flew by, and before I knew it, it was the day of Tyler’s shoot. In spite of myself, I’d taken care that morning to look nice without looking like I’d tried to look nice. I wore my favorite jean shorts, an ombré purple T-shirt with a “V” neckline that showed off my cleavage, and my coolest pair of hip, slip-on sneakers.
Did people still say “hip”?
My mass of dark hair was artfully messy, and I’d spent an hour putting on makeup that made it appear I’d been born with this natural, youthful glow.
Tyler came in as I was in the back cleaning the lenses for my camera. I didn’t even have to see or hear him to know he was there. My mating radar perked up as soon as he entered the reception area of my small, modest studio, the hair on the back of my neck standing up in awareness. A studio I was extremely proud of, by the way, because of everything I’d gone through to get to a place where I could afford the rent for a commercial space for my business.
