Chapter 1
1346 Words
Chapter One
Seth
“My fiancé would die if he knew I was here with you.”
I wish I could say I’m surprised to hear my client say this, but every bridal session I shoot, the woman says that sentence almost verbatim.
“Well he’s going to know once you show him these pictures, but he’ll be too distracted to care.” I chuckle and snap a picture of her spread eagle, dressed in white lace and satin lingerie.
She giggles and I click the shutter five times in a row to catch her head tipped back, smile wide and happy. That’s a keeper.
Being a boudoir photographer isn’t my first choice, but desperate times call for desperate measures. At first, I worried I’d be sporting a hard-on all day, but luckily, my clients are clients and that’s all I see them as. I’ve come to enjoy watching their confidence grow during our sessions.
I rarely want to nail any of them. I say rarely because hello, I’m a man. A single man, I’ll add. I’d be lying if I said never and lying’s not my thing. My brother does it enough for the both of us.
But as my client, Lizzy, sticks her t**s into the air, I’m not even slightly aroused. Mostly because my mind is preoccupied by a certain brunette.
“Let’s have you roll over now. Stick your ass in the air a bit.”
Who else gets to say this s**t at work? Other than a porn director.
My assistant changes the lighting, knowing exactly what I’m looking for. I’d never photograph a client without someone else in the room, preferably another woman. Having witnesses fends off any potential lawsuits or having someone misconstruing things. It keeps everything professional, not to mention easier.
A knock on the door stops me as I’m about to step up on a ladder to shoot Lizzy from above.
“Can you see who that is, Madison?” I ask my assistant.
It’s a small boudoir photography studio, so only Madison and I are here. We tell our clients if the red light is on outside the door, just have a seat and we’ll be with them soon. If someone knocks, I might duck out during a change break—you wouldn’t believe some of the outfits these women bring to fulfill their loved ones’ fantasies.
Madison closes the curtain that conceals the area I’m shooting in before she opens the door. She only gets it open a crack before someone pushes it forward and she falls to her ass.
“Oh sorry, dear,” my mom says.
“Mom! I’m in a session.” I pull the curtain shut to fully enclose Lizzy, but my mom must have started her walking regimen again because she beats me before I can hide my client.
“You’re a beauty. Oh no, don’t hide on my account. Flaunt what you got going on because thirty years later and you’re looking at the aftermath.” My mom runs her hands down her body.
“Mom, I’m with a client.” My fingers tighten around my camera.
“Why thank you.” Lizzy blushes. I’d snap a picture if that wasn’t weird.
“Trust me, your husband is going to love this. My son is the best photographer in the world.” Mom raises her hand, her finger and thumb ready to pinch my cheeks.
What can I say, I’m a momma’s boy. Not the “I live in her basement and she washes and folds my laundry” kind. But her happiness means a lot to me, and she puts me on a pedestal I’m not really deserving of. I think it’s just that compared to my brother, I’m a prince. Not a prince like Adrian, but you get what I mean.
“You can stay,” Lizzy says, seeming to enjoy having an audience.
My mom takes the invitation and sits in Madison’s chair.
I roll my eyes. “Give us a moment, Lizzy.” I put my finger in the air and politely nod toward the door for my mom to follow.
She sighs but does stand. “Can I give you some advice from an old lady?” Lizzy has no time to answer before my mom speaks. “Night cream is a must, even when you’re exhausted. Stay out of the sun and never smoke. And if you do it right, your s*x life is exercise enough.”
I gag while Madison laughs.
My mom shakes her head. “My son likes to think he was brought into this world by immaculate conception.”
Lizzy and Madison share a humorous look. I’m so happy they find my mom so funny.
“Mom,” I say with a bite in my tone.
She waves to Lizzy. “Sorry for interrupting. Remember, you’re beautiful and sexy and”—she waves away my impatient sigh—“you can be strong and brave too. Speak your mind and never keep anything inside.”
“Maybe we should offer an advice booth for you to man when our clients come in.”
My mom rolls her matching-to-mine blue eyes. “My son, the comedian.”
“Let’s go,” I say, holding the door handle.
“Oh fine.” My mom walks over and pats my cheek before she walks out.
“Hey, Madison, let’s change the backdrop to the black.”
She nods. “Got it.”
I shut the door to the studio and walk over to where my mom’s sitting in a waiting room chair.
“When the red light is on, you can’t come in. We’ve been over this.” I point at said light in case she missed it the first hundred times I’ve shown her over the past five years. If I could move her bagel shop so it wasn’t just a block away from the photography studio, I’d do it.
“I gave that girl a confidence boost. You tell them they’re beautiful when you shoot them, right?”
“Why are you here?” I change the subject because my mom needs to stay out of my business.
She nods as if she forgot what was so urgent she had to bust into my session. She opens her purse—which holds everything from tampons she hasn’t used for five years because of menopause to pain medicine and a mini sewing kit. Retrieving a folded piece of paper, she straightens it by laying it across her chest and running a hand down to get the crinkles out.
I hold out my hand and she places it in there once she’s satisfied it’s as flat as it will get.
Calling all businesses!
Come down to the mercantile mart this Saturday between 9-5 with the one dish your restaurant is known for—and get a chance to be on the Food Channel’s series Tastes of Small Towns. If you’re chosen, you head to the semi-finals next week, where our celebrity guests will pick winners for the breakfast, lunch, dinner, and treat segment. If you win, you’ll appear on our episode featuring restaurants and shops in Cliffton Heights, New York.
See you this Saturday!
I hand the flyer back to my mom. “You want to do this?”
She nods. “But you know your dad. He’ll say it’s a waste of time.”
My dad is more the type of guy who thinks, “I make the bagels and you eat them, or you don’t. They’re the best and if you don’t think so, you can take a hike.”
It’s why he and Mr. Erickson couldn’t keep The Bagel and Schmear Shop going. They’d argue about which mattered more—the bagel or schmear. My dad, Chris Andrews, was the bagel guy, and Mr. Erickson was the schmear guy. But because a stupid fight tore the business and their two families apart, Cliffton Heights residents can now choose Andrews Bagel if they want a better bagel than cream cheese or The Bagel Place if they want great cream cheese with an okay bagel.
“So?” My mom raises her eyebrows. “Will you go with me? I’ll bake them fresh and I’ve been working on this cream cheese recipe, but…” She doesn’t have to say it. It doesn’t compare to the Ericksons’ recipe.
“I’m sure they’ll be there too.”
There’s no way their daughter Evan, the brunette I just envisioned on that bed five minutes ago, will pass up the opportunity to be advertised on national television. I might not know everything about her like I used to, but she’s smart and bold. Hell, she’s probably already camped out in front of the mercantile mart to be the first in line.
- Writer
