SNAPSHOT
“Ahhhhh, booo-boo-boo-boo. Ah, booo-boo-boo-boo,” Summer sang, with forced enthusiasm, looking through the camera viewfinder. Jenny, her client, planted a raspberry on her baby girl’s chubby belly and then stepped back, hastily.
Click.
Flash.
Simultaneously, all of the professional lighting snapped, illuminating the dark studio and dazing the drooling baby, who sat on a pull-down white background. She rested, an adorable lump, with a finger in her mouth, wide open eyes, and a pink bow headband around her bald head.
Summer looked at the digital preview of the picture. She’d captured the shot. Carefully composed, with patience and time. Now, nine-month-old Madelyn’s soft skin, kissable cheeks, and darling, big eyes could be enjoyed forever. Babies changed, photographs didn’t. With enough attention to detail, she could make the perfect photograph. Static, lovely, inspiring.
Unlike her life.
Turning the camera to show Jenny the preview, she said, “I think we got it this time.” She twisted her blonde ponytail around her finger.
Jenny looked at the image and her eyes lit up. “Oooh, I love it! Ohmigod, you’re the best. She looks so cute! You’re such a good photographer!”
Summer didn’t know how to handle the gushing. Even though she’d received plenty of effusive compliments in response to her pictures after five years of being a professional photographer, they slid off of her Teflon-coated exterior. She knew that she had an eye for taking artistic, striking pictures that stayed popular with all of the trendy mommies, but she still found it difficult to accept the praise. Praise felt too good to allow inside her.
Allowing in the good meant that you deserved to accept the good. And Summer found it hard to believe that she deserved good in her life. She’d come to the conclusion, based on the way her life had been going, that she didn’t deserve anything but complete crap.
She’d just survived the Christmas holidays without her boyfriend of eight years. Now he was an ex-boyfriend with whom she’d wasted eight years. Eight whole years of her life. She’d told herself that it was a good thing that he was gone since she’d found out he’d been cheating on her for the last two years. They fought. He left. Then her heart disappeared, failing to beat. It was right for her to insist on him leaving because having him around, knowing that he’d been unfaithful to her, hurt.
But it was also painful to be without him, even though she’d never admit it to anyone else. The truth was, she still loved him even though at the same time she couldn’t stand the sight of him. He had to go.
These days, for the most part, she felt blank, like undeveloped film. Nothing happened. She just watched others through her camera while they lived their lives. And she pretended that the pretty pictures that she created were real life.
But they weren’t her real life.
Spending the winter holidays alone felt narrow and empty. She’d barely made it through the motions of buying Christmas presents, the obligatory type for family, not the type from her heart. No reason to bother with a tree or cards, and she hadn’t even opened those cards she’d received.
But now, late January, the consumer machine of America conspired to continually remind her of her single relationship status. Her solitude. The drug stores and supermarkets crammed the aisles with red and pink hearts, balloons, teddy bears, chocolates, and sugar she didn’t need to consume. Wasn’t she supposed to have started a new low carb diet after New Year’s? Well, she hadn’t done it, deciding to wear a daily uniform of black leggings and a black oversized t-shirt instead, to hide her imperfect body. She’d escaped to a few too many sugary treats during the holidays, in an effort to forget him. It didn’t work.
She set down her camera. Madelyn’s mother gathered up her baby, put her in the car seat carrier, and followed Summer up to the front to make an appointment to view the picture proofs.
“You know,” said the young mother thoughtfully, “I’m an event promoter. I’m putting together a romance novel event in Irvine where authors and cover models can meet. And I need a candid photographer. The one I hired backed out at the last minute. Interested?”
“No,” replied Summer immediately. “I only do studio work.”
Carefully composed, with controlled lighting. Planned.
The mother narrowed her eyebrows and looked at her like she was nuts. “Seriously? You could totally do it. It will be easy money.”
Well, she could use the money. He’d left her with credit card bills that she could barely afford. Add financial woes to her list of problems.
But no. It was bad enough that she took precious photographs of babies and children, having none of her own. There was no way in hell she’d go to a mushy romance novel event that celebrated unrealistic expectations of men. Of couples. Of life. No. Way.
Not for her.
The mom pressed a piece of paper into Summer’s hand. “It’s February 13,” she said. “All you have to do is go around and take pictures of writers and models with the attendees. And I’ll pay you.”
Summer looked at the paper, which had a rate sheet that constituted too much money to turn down. It’d make a major dent in her debt.
Forcing a smile, Summer gritted out, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Great!” Jenny enthused. She gave Summer her contact information, forms to fill out, an entrance pass, and the instructions to the convention center.
The day before Valentine’s Day, early in the morning, Summer handed her ticket to the greeter, had it scanned, and walked into the convention center, camera in hand, backpack on her shoulder, looking for the romance writer’s convention. It was easy to find; it took up the whole place. Authors and assistants stacked glossy paperback books on tables while banners advertised authors and publishers behind them. Swag galore. People milled around everywhere, fingering bookmarks, pens, and chapstick with book cover labels. A long line of attendees stretched out the front door behind her, tickets in hand.
Chaos.
She immediately noticed the terrible, harsh, industrial convention center lighting. How would she even know how to start to take pictures? How could she control any of this activity to take decent pictures?
Damned real life. Not a staged set.
She looked around at all of the book covers: all idealized coupling, partially dressed men or women, passionate embraces. She sat down on a walled planter and surveyed the scene.
The money. You need the money, she thought. You can do this. Just take pictures. Even if you can’t control the lighting or the backgrounds. Ignore the gooey romance books, ignore the starry eyes, and ignore the day celebrating supposed love. Just pay attention to the shot. You take pictures of people. Normally much younger people. But people. So do it.
She stood back up and saw Jenny hustling toward her. Oh god, she really was going to do this.
“Summer! I’m so glad you’re here. Start with pictures of the cover models. Come on.” Summer grabbed her backpack and followed Jenny to a ballroom where three of the most obscenely glamorous men she’d ever seen stood behind a folding table.
A physical reaction came over her. Her shoulders tensed, her gut sunk, and her eyes popped.
So attractive.
They were so attractive.
No breath.
She had no breath.
Then.
A beat.
Another beat.
Oh, that was her heart beating.
She’d missed what that felt like.
It felt like it hadn’t beat since he left a few months ago. Physically, of course, that was impossible. But when someone took your heart, you didn’t notice its absence; you noticed its return.
As she stared at these three models, she realized, humans are programed to love beauty. It is in our nature to love beautiful things. She spent so much time creating pretty things, but it had become rote. Now, jostled by these pretties, she felt … something. A stirring.
Get it together, Summer, she thought. Be a professional. She got a better look at them.
All gorgeous. All tall. All muscular.
A spiky-haired blond, with pale skin and dark brown eyes, stood to the right, wearing a killer smile, tattoos on his fingers and likely up his arms, and jeans and a long sleeve Henley. A dark-skinned, dark-eyed hunk, with fantastic cheekbones and a precise haircut, commanded the middle, wearing an awesomely tailored suit. And a golden-skinned, dark-haired, green-eyed, granite-jawed hottie, wearing dark jeans and crisp white button-down shirt leaned to the left. Immediately, he was her favorite. He just was.
And he looked at her, interest on his face. But he probably looked that way for everyone, she was sure of it. That look sold books. She shut down any further thought about him.
Male models. Book cover heroes. They didn’t exist beyond the photograph.
By instinct, she lifted up her camera, view finder to her eye, and snapped a picture of the three of them. Her body acted with an involuntary reaction: find loveliness, record it.
Jenny introduced her to the three men and she didn’t register their names. She took pictures of them, individually, in pairs, and all three of them, going through the motions. Then, on autopilot, she left the room, and took pictures in the grand hall, of the authors and readers amidst stacks of books. She composed groups of excited women meeting their favorite authors. Sisters together. Friends and acquaintances. Mother-daughter combos. Husbands dragged along. She managed to compose some professional shots despite her concerns. She filled up a memory card and switched to another. She did her job, because after all, she was a professional.
After, she made her way to the convention center restaurant for lunch, sat down at an empty table, and pulled out her limp sandwich, squished from her bag.
Then.
A low, attractive male voice came up behind her. “May I join you?”
Model number three, the dark-haired, green-eyed, chiseled, hottie smiled at her and gestured to the empty seat at her table.
Whatever. It’s a free country, she thought. “Sure,” she said. He gracefully sat down next to her.
“You’re the event photographer? I’m Jamie Flynn,” he said, reaching out a strong, lean hand to shake hers, a dark curl dropping over his eye. He smiled at her, a smile that surely made others turn to Jello.
“I’m Summer Jacobson,” she answered. “And yes, but this is a one-time gig.”
He looked at her. “Why?”
“I’m a portrait photographer. Snapshots aren’t my thing.” She feigned interest in her sandwich, trying to avoid his gaze.
She failed. He smiled, tilting his elegant head. “Why not?”
“I can control every aspect of a portrait in my studio. Here? It just doesn’t work.”
He looked at her, plainly trying to figure her out and opened his mouth to ask another question but was interrupted.
Jenny’s voice cracked over the PA system. “It’s time for our giveaways!” And she started announcing names of attendees who won signed copies of paperbacks, meet and greets with authors, and other prizes. Summer tuned it out.
But then she heard her name.
She turned to Jamie, who grinned. “Wait, what? What did I win?”
“You won a date with me.”
That’s ridiculous, she thought. “But I didn’t enter.”
“When they scanned your ticket, you were automatically entered into all of the prizes. You just won a Valentine’s date with me.” Then he suddenly looked bashful. “You know, if you want.”
She didn’t want.
Not because he wasn’t attractive or nice. But because it felt forced. Just like Valentine’s Day.
And because she didn’t deserve the good. It rolled off her, not sticking, not becoming part of her.
But then she got a better look at him.
His face graced dozens of book covers, usually in a sharp business suit, portraying the billionaire. She wanted to take him back to her dark studio, light him properly, and show the contours of his face, the fullness of his lips, the unusual color of his eyes. His beauty. She wanted to capture his beauty, permanently. Make it static so it never changed.
When things never changed, you didn’t get hurt.
Sitting next to her, however, he moved. His delicious mouth glistened when he talked, the veins in his hand moved like a sidewinder when he tapped the table, his kneecap jumped through his pants as he moved his toned legs, and his emerald eyes darted around, then settled on her, focusing.
And then he leaned toward her, concerned, saying quietly, with his sexy, low voice, “I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes if you shouldn’t be going out on a date.”
Why shouldn’t she go out on a date, though? She shook her head. “No toes to step on.” She could go, right? How bad could it be?
She looked over at her camera, resting on the table.
God, it was time to live a little. He’s hot. A meal with him would be fine.
Fine.
She nodded.
“Good.” He paused. “Do you want the truth?”
“Always.” No way did she want a liar. Not after the last one.
“There was no ‘date-with-me’ contest until I saw you and asked Jenny to make it up.”
Her heart stopped and her breathing halted. “What?”
“I wanted to get to know you.” He sat back in his chair, looking tentative.
Immediately, “So why couldn’t you just ask?”
He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I have more confidence in pictures than in actual life.”
Summer nodded again and relaxed. A date. Fine. She liked his immediate honesty and vulnerability. So damn seductive.
“Let me try it again,” he said. He took a deep breath. She looked at his face, focusing on him, not the brand name-sponsored romance around her or the fake day. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Spending it with you,” she answered, allowing in the good.