Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2)

  She busied herself by taking out the gowns she’d hung after last night’s rehearsal dinner, starting with three sea-foam-green bridesmaids’ dresses and then moving to Hailey’s stunning Alfred Angelo A-line with an illusion boat neck. Not Gussie’s favorite style, but it suited Hailey’s understated personality.

  She fitted the gown onto the dress form, spreading out the train for the most gasp-inducing effect when the bridal party arrived. Next, she headed back into the closet to find the shoes so she could line them up on one side, and on the way, she snapped on the sound system to play the soft classical music Willow loved and made sure the lights were set to perfection.

  Carrying a load of five shoe boxes that blocked her vision—Rhonda had hers in here, too—Gussie navigated her way back outside when she heard a loud click.

  “Perfection.” Tom’s voice was a little louder than the music. “Sheer perfection.”

  Gussie slowly leaned to the right to see around the shoe boxes. He was flat on his stomach, a camera up to his eye, his lens focused on the train she’d spread.

  “What are you—”

  “Shh. I’m getting you the money shot.”

  “Of a dress on a form?”

  “The opening act, Pink.” He snapped a few more, giving her a minute to lower the boxes and watch. And what a sight it was. Faded jeans hugging his ass and long legs spread wide to anchor him. His broad shoulders were propped up on his elbows, his hair fanning over the white T-shirt pulled snug over his muscular back.

  White T-shirt? Wait a minute. “What are you wearing?”

  “Work clothes. Shh.” Click. Click. Click. And he rolled to his side to capture another angle.

  “For a wedding?”

  “I get dirty when I work.” And he rolled again, all the way onto his back, looking right up at her. Well, the camera was. “Auburn today? I like it.”

  Click.

  She backed away from the lens, lifting the boxes to cover her face. “Don’t take pictures of me.”

  “Why not?”

  Because there were few things she hated more in the world. “This isn’t my wedding. I’m supposed to be totally in the background.”

  “I’m going to take pictures of everything, foreground and background. Then I’m going to make a masterpiece of a wedding album, and it’s going to be so amazing that you…” Click. Click. And he popped to his feet with one smooth move, angling to the side to snap her surprised face. “Lower the boxes.”

  “Wha—”

  “The boxes. Lower.” He put his hand on the top box and pushed down, clearing his view of her face. “Look down at them.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t take pictures of the stylist, Tom. You—”

  He leaned right into her and kissed her on the lips. As she drew back, open-mouthed, he snapped the shot without even putting the camera to his eye. “Tom!”

  “That one’s for me. Let’s start on the shoes.”

  She set the boxes on the makeup table, corralling her exasperation. This wasn’t a good start to what would be a long day. “What exactly are you doing?”

  “Uh, shooting a wedding? I believe that’s what I was hired to do.”

  “You were, but—”

  “We’ll do it my way. And if you don’t like it, then…” He took one of the boxes and flipped it open, dropping the shoes to the floor. “Never mind. You’ll love it.”

  He dumped the rest of the shoes, making a messy pile of sea-foam green and ivory satin, high heels, buckles, and bows. Then he started shooting, getting closer and closer and closer, until the last shot, which was nothing but the stitching on the toe of one of the bride’s shoes.

  When he finished, he grinned up at her.

  “Do you spend a lot of time on the floor?”

  “A helluva lot.” He stood and lowered the camera. “Look, here’s the only rule for today. You do what you do and I do what I do, and when those two things overlap, I get the final say if it affects a picture, and you get the final say if it affects the wedding style. Deal?”

  “I—”

  “Deal.” He kissed her again, quick and playful. Too quick.

  “What about when the bridal party gets here? You think Rhonda Lyons is going to let you take what photos you want to take?” Her eyes dropped to the skintight white T-shirt. “Dressed like that?”

  He fought a smile. “I’ll handle Rhonda and the bride and the party and photography. Trust me, this is what I do.”

  Actually, she was pretty sure this wasn’t what he did. “You promised that whole elegant but lighthearted theme, remember?”

  “It will be all that and”—he picked up the camera, his gaze moving over her shoulder—“more.” Camera in hand, he walked to the ottoman, studying it, looked up at the chandelier and around the room. “Didn’t expect to find this place in the back of the resort spa.”

  “When the Barefoot Brides moved in nearly a year ago, it was clear that destination weddings would be a bread-and-butter staple of the resort’s business, so Lacey, the owner, gave up two adjoining massage and facial rooms to make this dressing area.”

  His gaze fell on the makeup table, two silk settees, a wet bar, a dressing platform surrounded by mirrors and, under a glistening crystal chandelier, the oversize ivory silk and velvet tufted ottoman where brides loved to lounge, sip champagne, and pose for pictures.

  “This place has your fingerprints all over it.”

  The comment really shouldn’t have given her a little frisson of satisfaction, but it did. “That’s because I designed it, inch by satiny inch.” She gestured wide, as though introducing him to her pride and joy. “And it is my canvas to sprinkle stardust and transform nervous brides and giddy girlfriends from simple into stunning.”

  But he had a question in his eyes.

  “You look as if you don’t quite believe me.”

  “I do believe you. I can hear the passion and see the proof, but…” His voice trailed off.

  “But what?”

  After a second, he shook his head and let it go, turning to the tufted ottoman and the chandelier above it. “Is that on a dimmer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take it as low as it will go, will you?”

  “Sure.” She went to the switch and turned the dimmer knob to its lowest setting. With no windows and only wall sconces, the room quickly became shadowed.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “That’s as dim as it goes. Don’t you need some light?”

  He traveled around, on his knees, then put his hand on the satin tufted edges. “Not with this camera, but…” He moved the camera and looked at the ottoman, silent while he thought. After a beat, he gestured her over.

  “Sit here.”

  “Tom, I…” Hate to have my picture taken.

  “Sit. I need to do a light check.” When she didn’t move, he turned to her. “You do expect me to take pictures of the bride on this thing, don’t you?”

  “Well, that’s what the photographer usually does.”

  “Usually being the operative word, so I’ll have to do it somewhat differently. Sit here for me, Gussie.”

  She gave up the argument and perched on the edge.

  “Lean back,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder to guide her where he wanted her. Then he held the camera up and aimed it right at her…

  Breasts? She put a hand over her chest, suddenly aware of how thin her silk button-down shell was. “We generally focus on the bride’s face.”

  “Generally,” he said. “Usually. Always. Standard. Commonly.” He moved the camera from his eye to look right at her. “Do any of those words sound like they describe what I do?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “But this is a wedding, and you did agree to photograph it, so I do expect a little nod to convention.”

  “You will get your nod.” His gaze traveled down again, lingering for a moment on her chest, then went all the way down to the light linen pants. “That’s a different look for you.” br />
  “Work uniform.” She plucked at the breathable fabric, every inch of it a subtle, understated sand tone. “I’m cool and comfortable for all the running around I do for a wedding, and I blend in. This day, these photos and, really, even this room are not about me.”

  “Mmm.” He angled for a shot, so she put her hand in front of the lens, which looked quite a bit more expensive than what other wedding photographers used. “No more pictures of the stylist. The shoes and esoteric image shots to help tell the tale are fine, but not me.”

  “Why not?”

  She was saved by the sound of female giggling and footsteps echoing from the hall outside. He reached down and gave her a hand, slowly pulling her up until her face was scant inches from his.

  “Later, Pink. I’ll get my shot. Right on that…tufty thing. But now let’s work together.”

  He made the shot and the work and the tufty thing all sound way too sexy. Way.

  * * *

  Tom had expected the worst—an emotional bride, a pushy mother, a douche-bag groom, horny bridesmaids, a cheese-ball band, a drunken speech, and the sapfest of a father-daughter dance set to what would feel like a three-hour version of Butterfly Kisses. But the Barefoot Brides staged an elegant, sophisticated, and surprisingly low-key event that he dutifully recorded with a thirty-thousand-dollar Leica S2-P. Recorded his way, of course.

  He also got the pure pleasure of working side by side with Gussie, observing her in her element, sprinkling her sugar dust, or whatever she called it, and a singular brand of infectious zest for life.

  It just made him want her more.

  Finally, Hailey and her weak-chinned groom—that poor schmuck didn’t stand a chance against the tidal wave of a mother-in-law—headed to one of the villas, a little tipsy, veil, shoes, and tuxedo jacket long gone.

  Using the moonlight and tiki torches for color, he stole a few candids of a teary conversation between the bride’s parents and grabbed a great shot of some of the groomsmen heading into the resort bar to close it down.

  “Hey, TJ.”

  He heard the woman’s voice over the waning noise of the crowd, but knew it couldn’t be Gussie because she’d never call him by his professional name. It had to be someone who wanted one more picture, no doubt. Slowly, he turned, only a little surprised to see one of the bridesmaids making her way toward him, her hair fallen, her shoes long gone. She was the prettiest and most flirtatious of the three, and he’d been trying to avoid her suggestive gazes since her third glass of champagne.

  “Hey…Kaylie, is it?”

  “Kayla,” she corrected, zeroing in. “You almost done? We’re hitting the bar.”

  “Nowhere near done,” he told her.

  She came closer, booze-brightened eyes dancing with hope. “I can wait. We can walk the beach. And I have a villa here if you want to, you know, talk.”

  “Too busy, I’m afraid.”

  She made a childish frown and fluttered a finger over the dragon on his bicep. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I think you’re really cute.”

  “Cute? No, I don’t get that often.”

  She giggled. “Hot? Cool? Come on.” She slipped a finger up the sleeve of his T-shirt. “We have nice chemistry, don’t you think?”

  “The groomsmen are in the bar. You’d have better luck there.”

  She narrowed her eyes, predatory and determined, inching closer just as an arm scooped through his, and Gussie sidled next to him, the bride’s veil and groom’s jacket over her other arm, a pair of ivory satin shoes hooked off her fingertips.

  “Need some closing shots over here, Tom. Kayla, honey, Courtney took your shoes, and they’ve all headed back to her villa for a post-party. They’re waiting for you.” She tugged Tom’s arm. “This way.”

  Easily, she pulled him away and walked the length of the dance floor.

  “Merci beaucoup,” he whispered.

  She looked up with a smile. “You’re welcome. Come to safe harbor with the Barefoot Brides.” She guided him to a back table where the other two wedding planners, one with a checklist, another gathering linens and centerpieces, stood talking.

  “So how was your first wedding?” Willow asked as they arrived.

  “Surprisingly nice. You ladies do excellent work.”

  The three of them shared smiles of pride.

  “I wish Hailey had worn this off to her wedding night, though.” He fluttered the veil’s lace on Gussie’s arm. “I would have liked to have shot it falling to the sand as she walked away.”

  “But it seemed like you got a lot of fantastic pictures,” Ari said. “I can’t believe you actually climbed on top of the gazebo. We’ve never had a photographer up there.”

  “You’ve never had me,” he said simply.

  Willow tapped the clipboard she’d had in her hand the entire day. “Rhonda’s already bugging us for a proof sheet. Any idea when you’ll have one?”

  “I’ll need to do some work to pull everything together,” he said. “Gimme a day or two.”

  “We’ll hold off the dogs,” Ari assured him. “And thank you so much, Tom, for stepping in and saving us for this wedding.”

  “I was, uh, well persuaded.” He couldn’t help looking at Gussie, noticing that she looked a little tired and her makeup wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been that morning, though her false eyelashes were secure, fanning bottle brushes up to her arched brows. They were another thing he wanted to rip off her, if only to get to the real woman beneath.

  “Well, we owe you,” Willow said.

  “Then let your partner go, and we’ll call it even,” he replied.

  “To France?” Ari asked with an expectant smile.

  “To the dressing room, so she can unload the bride’s belongings and review the initial shots. Unless the stylist isn’t in charge of the wedding album?”

  Even in the flickering torchlight, he could see some color rise in Gussie’s face. She knew exactly what he had in mind in the dressing room.

  “Go, Gus,” Willow said. “We’ve got this covered.”

  “Seriously, you guys are done,” Ari told them. “Call it a night. And thank you, Tom. The bridal party loved you.”

  “Understatement alert,” Gussie teased, discreetly pointing to where they’d left Kayla. “I already saved him from the maid of honor.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful.” He underscored that with one hand on her shoulder, the other hoisting his camera bag. “You need help carrying anything?”

  “I got this.” She lifted the veil, jacket, and shoes.

  They said good-bye to the others and circled past the band, currently striking their set, when Gussie put her hand on his arm and said, “I don’t want to run into anyone from the wedding, because the guys are drunk and the women will attack you. Let’s go through the back entrance.”

  It meant crossing about fifty feet of sand, but he agreed. They stopped, and Tom kicked off his shoes and gave her an arm while she did the same with her sandals. She adjusted the items in her arms, and they made their way across the cool sand.

  Neither of them spoke, letting the night noises from the wedding breakdown and the soft splash of the surf fill the thick, warm air.

  “You did a great job,” she finally said.

  “You haven’t seen the shots yet.”

  “I know your work. And thanks for not taking pictures of the stylist.”

  “The night is young.” He slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. “And we’re not finished yet.”

  He felt her stiffen, then give in, settling closer and letting their bodies touch. “All right, what do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s just say…you’re not the only one who can pull off a transformation.”

  She gave him a look, questioning and curious, then he could see her relinquish the fight. At least for now.

  “I do still need a closing shot for our album.” He had a good storyboard in his head and knew he’d blow them all away with the power of these
shots. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard would never have a traditional wedding album, not if his name was on it. “I need something symbolic and pretty. Can you help?”

  “Of course.” She lifted the lace veil and let the slight breeze pick it up. “I could let it float through the air.”

  He considered that, eyeing the moon and imagining the shot. “Maybe, but…no.”

  “Spread on the sand? Floating on the water?”

  He smiled. “I love the way you think, Gussie. Every style idea you’ve had today has been right-on.” When she beamed up at him, he couldn’t resist pulling her a little closer, only the shoes and clothes she carried between them. “So, what did you decide?”

  “About?”

  “France.”

  She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes as she breathed out. “I knew that was coming sooner or later.”

  “Of course. Look what a great time we had today. You could come to the photo shoots, or even work with the stylists…”

  “And he’s sweetening the deal. If I drag this out any longer, you’ll let me be a LaVie model.”

  God, he’d love that. “Would that put you over the edge?”

  “The edge of sanity,” she told him, slowing her step to get even closer. Surprising him, she leaned forward and kissed his chin. “I told you, I hate having my picture taken.”

  “Then you’ve never had it taken by me.”

  “The photographer doesn’t change anything.”

  He slammed his fist against his heart, as if he could feel the dagger there.

  “I mean, you can’t make me enjoy the process, no matter how good you are.”

  “You willing to bet on that?”

  She laughed. “I only bet candy. What do you have?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. “Will this do?”

  “No.”

  “How about”—he turned her to face him—“a trip to France?”

  She frowned, shaking her head.

  “Come on, Gus. If I can prove to you that getting your picture taken—by me—can be a pleasurable experience, then you let go of all your reservations and go.”

  She snagged the gum. “We’ll see.”