Page 17 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

I’ve never worked an event like this before. They’re treating this thing more like a wedding than a party—like it’s important for me to catch all the moments, before and after. The event planner has been nothing but kind, but this is a very long gig.

Then again, there is a reason Travis is paying me so much.

Travis moves deeper into the crowd, and I turn away for a moment to give my body a chance to recover.

Seeing him is like walking up the stairs when you haven’t exercised in a while—I know I shouldn’t be breathing hard, and I’m embarrassed by it, but there’s nothing I can do to change the way my body is reacting to the situation.

I focus in on a new shot—an older couple flirting by the tall, sparkling water fountain in the center of the room. The chandelier twinkles above them, and the vaulted ceilings in the background provide good separation, framing them between two golden arches.

Even though I manage to keep busy, taking photos of Travis from across the room and giving myself little breaks by photographing other guests in between, I feel his constant presence like a hand resting on my shoulder.

The next time I turn around to find him, camera searching through the crowd, I see him by the tower of champagne glasses.

He stands completely still, a pale drink in his hand, staring right at me.

My entire body stills, chills racing up and down my legs at the feeling of that gaze. Even from this distance, I make out the way it rakes slowly up, then down, my figure, hesitating just for a moment on the hem of my dress.

You know, I can hear Georgia saying.Kind of creepy behavior.

Does it still count as creepy if I’m into it? Yeah, maybe a different freelancer might not be into the wholedress in the hotel roomthing, but I liked it. I can’t lie to myself and say that I wasn’t excited. That I wasn’t hoping he would be on the other side of the door. Waiting for me in the bed.

His taking pleasure at the sight of me in this dress should be an HR disaster.

Except I didn’t have to wear the dress. I didn’t have to accept this job, didn’t have to come to this event. And I didn’t have to arrive so eagerly at the hotel room, pulsing with the hope that he might be there. Waiting for me.

Now, I blink away that image—of him reclining in that massive hotel bed, one arm up over his head nonchalantly, staring up at me—and try to focus on my work. I’m here to take pictures, not to fantasize about Travis’s hands on my waist. Not to imagine the photos I could take of his body, all gorgeous muscle and tight angles.

An hour later, the night moving along steadily, Travis makes a speech, and he doesn’t look at me once while he gives it. I look at him plenty—positioning myself to put him in the best light, focusing in on the way it glances over his cheeks, making his brown eyes appear even darker.

Studying him through the camera isn’t doing me any favors, but he’s beautiful. I can’t make myself look away.

When the speech is over, the room raises their glasses, and Travis turns, looking right at me. It jolts through me, and I forget to take a picture. The crowd cheers and drinks between us, but our eyes stay locked.

Jesus. I rip my gaze away and focus on what I’m here to do.

For the next hour, I slip in and out of crowds, taking as many pictures as I can. Still, even being this focused, I feel Travis’s attention on me, and I can’t stop myself from glancing back up at him, the thrill of possibility sparking each time we connect.

The nice thing about roaming the room with a camera in hand is that I’m afforded the same invisibility as the staff when it comes to the general party attendees.

I can blend into the background, watch them without being watched in return. Of course, there are plenty of people who hastily turn away from the camera. People who believe they never look good in pictures. But they don’t really see me—theysee the camera, the promise of an image on social media that they’re either going to love or curse.

And, apparently, I’msoinvisible that a man nearly knocks me completely over.

“Oh shit—shit, sorry.” There are large, warm hands on my arms, pulling me up, getting me back on my feet. I grip my camera like it’s a baby, the thought of dropping it heart-wrenching.

“Jesus,” I breathe when I realize everything’s okay, and my death grip on my Canon worked. Then, I look up into the face of the man who nearly just cost me my livelihood. “Why don’t you…”

But my voice fails me. How fucking embarrassing.

“…watch where I’m going?” he finishes for me in a joking tone. He quirks an eyebrow, his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin that instantly pulls at my heart.

He has a head of wild, sandy blonde curls that stand up from his head like he’s been running his hands through them. Now, smiling like he is, deep dimples pop on his cheeks, laugh lines teasing me.

This man is gorgeous in a way that goes deeper than facial features. He does have shining blue eyes, a playful set to his face. But there’s something more.

In college, I had friends who painted, and we’d have discussions about the differences between capturing a moment and recreating it. How difficult it can be to truly accomplish the vibrancy of a human spirit in a portrait.

But the thing is that it’s hard to do with photography, too. It’s like each person’s face is a pond, and if it’s too still, the picture is just going to feel like a reflection of them. You need to ripple that pond, get the surface of the water moving just enough that you can see what’s underneath.