He pushes his lower lip forward. "Maybe..."
"Or maybe not," we both say simultaneously.
I know I shouldn't be grinning at him like this, but I can't help it. It's fun and feels light and easy in my chest, especially when he smiles at me like that. And that look, it's so... I can't quite put my finger on it...
"Alright, Skady—or maybe not—now, down to the facts," he says, placing his hand over his chest. "My interest in you is purely professional."
His job is to persue people? Suddenly, I'm back to my senses. I scrutinize him more closely, spotting the camera bag hanging by his hip, and everything becomes clear. "Are you the photographer?"
"Well... you see." He reaches for the camera, as if he himself needs to understand why he has it with him. Then I notice the suitcase by his feet. His apologetic smile makes him way too likable. "Yes, Söderberg had to cancel, and I'm filling in."
Okay, this is quite embarrassing. I probably could have just asked him why he was here. No wonder he's stumbling over his words when I'm acting like a lunatic. Since I returned to Stockholm, I somehow don't feel like myself. It's as if I've lost my balance.
"Alright." I feel my face heating and quickly turn away. "Wait here," I tell him and grab my suitcase so we don't waste any more time. "By the way, I'm not Skady; I'm Sky," I say after locking the front door.
Staring directly into my eyes, he grins mischievously. "Sky suits you much better."
He noticed my deep blue eyes, which earned me my nickname.
Interesting.
No, it's not. Not at all.
Struggling to focus, I walk with him towardStureparken, where the taxi waits amid trees and shrubs covered in frost. Likea true gentleman, he holds the car door open for me. As I slip past him, I catch a whiff of his scent for a split second.
Alluring.
Dangerously alluring.
I quickly shake the thought from my mind. "Bromma Airport, please," I address the taxi driver with the thick woolen scarf while Kjell takes a seat beside me.
She signals and merges into the heavy traffic. Warm air flows from the ventilation system, enveloping me in comfort. I unfasten the oversized buttons of my short coat and check my phone. My father should be in the operating room by now. I probably won't hear from June until we land in Milan, but I can hardly put my phone down.
No. I must focus on my task, no matter how difficult it is.
It's about a thirty-minute drive to the airport from here, ample time to discuss the basics with Kjell. Because that's what my father would do.
"Did you receive the briefing?" SinceTouch av lyxcommissions photo shoots for every show, my father documented the necessary information for photographers years ago. Hopefully, the briefing still exists.
"No." He shrugs apologetically.
I strain to recall the instructions after all this time, which is not as easy as I had hoped.
Gradually, I explain that we primarily need backstage shots that capture the hustle and bustle and the ambiance of the show—candid shots of preparations and creative close-ups, all with a focus on the designs.
"A few things are especially important," I conclude with a professional tone.
Until now, he has only nodded in agreement. Now, he raises his index finger to signal he needs a moment and takes out a notepad. "Go on."
"First, no photos of me." I sound like a drill instructor. Terrible. But as much as I hate it myself, it must be done for him to understand the seriousness of the situation.
"Why not?" he asks, without writing it down. Behind him, Stockholm's facades pass by. Briefly, that feeling resurfaces that I should know him.
I nod toward his notepad. "No photos of me. Please note that."
He furrows his brow skeptically. He holds my gaze for so long that a strange confusion builds within me again. Then he thankfully jots down the most important rule.
"Second, every picture must be personally approved by me," I quickly add. "I decide which photos can be used after the show and which must be definitively destroyed. You're familiar with the contractTouch av lyxhas with your agency, right?"
