A favor? He eyed the pink wig, the artfully applied makeup, the flirty skirt, and wanted to know more about her. Like, what was she hiding under that rainbow of color? “Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”
“A wedding photographer.”
He frowned, not following. “You want me to recommend someone?”
“I want you to shoot a wedding. This weekend.”
He stared at her, then smiled, slowly. And that grew to a real laugh, because that was about the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Except by the look on her face, she was dead serious.
And something told him this unusual young woman was not about to take no for an answer.
“I know that’s like asking Picasso to fill in a coloring book,” she said. “But is there any chance you would consider it just this once?”
“A wedding?” Was she on crack?
“I know this is a really hard time for you and your niece, and I don’t mean to intrude on your time together, but maybe a fun wedding on the beach would help take your mind off the grief?”
Not enough to get him to strap on a camera and shoot the receiving line. He’d rather shoot himself. He was vaguely aware of the whirring sounds of the video game from the den, the noise filling in an awkward beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I’m sure you can find another photographer.”
Raspberry-glossed lips tilted in disappointment, and he hated the splash of guilt in his gut. But TJ DeMille was not a wedding photographer. It was bad enough he’d been turned into a permanent babysitter, but he wouldn’t make his currently crappy situation worse by shooting a wedding.
“Okay,” she said, the sadness in her acceptance still not wiping out the sparkling light in her bottle-green eyes. “I knew it was an outrageous request, but if you don’t ask, you don’t know.”
“I like fearlessness in a woman,” he admitted. “I like someone who knows what they want and goes after it.”
Her expression grew hopeful.
“But I draw the line at wedding photography.”
She let out a slow exhale. “Of course you do. Well, it was great to meet you. I didn’t tell you this, but I’m a fashion blogger and stylist and a huge fan of your work.”
“Really?” Then she should have known he didn’t do happy brides and grooms. “Thanks.”
“Well, I…” She glanced toward the hall. “Can I say good-bye to Alex?”
“Of course.” He gestured for her to go first, a little surprised by the request. Was she still trying to get into his good graces so he’d say yes, or did she really care about a girl she’d just met?
Behind her, his gaze was drawn to the skirt that flipped around her thighs, showing long legs and a shapely backside. It was the first time he’d really gotten a good look at her body, which was slender and strong, but quite feminine. Her face had been captivating enough. If only she didn’t cover it all up with the wig and makeup, even though both were applied with the hand of an expert.
She paused at the den door, leaning in. “Sounds like somebody’s at the mall,” she said lightly.
Instantly, the sounds stopped as Alex paused the game. Even that was a rarity, Tom thought.
“It’s an easy course,” Alex said.
“If you know how to find the escalator,” Gussie replied.
Alex laughed, the sound still so out of the norm in this house that Tom couldn’t believe he heard it. “Can you play now?” she asked Gussie.
“I…” Gussie turned to him, a question in her eyes, then suddenly she shook her head. “No, I can’t,” she said to Alex. “I have to go.”
To find a photographer, even though there was one standing in front of her. Guilt kicked him in the chest, but he ignored it.
“Aww.” Real disappointment echoed from the den, adding power to that guilt kick.
“Another time,” Gussie said brightly.
But they both knew there wouldn’t be another time. Unless…
“I hope so.” The thin strand of desperation in Alex’s voice added a knife slice to his already bruised chest.
Gussie stepped back into the hall and tipped her head, a sad frown pulling. “She’s so sweet,” she mouthed, slipping past him to return to the living room.
This time as he followed her, his gaze wasn’t on her shapely backside or legs. Instead, he stared at the tile floor and gave into the certainty of what he had to do.
How hard would it be to take a few pictures at a wedding?
She moved quickly, getting to the front door a few seconds before he did. She opened it and then paused. “Thanks, any—”
“I changed my mind.”
She leaned forward as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.
“I’ll do the wedding.”
Then she blinked at him. “Wha…why? I mean, that’s awesome, but what happened?”
He had a million ways he could go with this, but settled on the truth because it was always easier and less complicated than anything else. “So you’ll come back and play that game with Alex.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it again, shaking her head.
“You won’t?”
“I will. But you don’t have to…although I really want you to.” She laughed lightly. “What I mean is, I love kids, and I’d be happy to play with her, but not to coerce you into doing my wedding.”
Her wedding? Of course…that hadn’t even occurred to him. For some reason, some wrong reason, he’d gotten the impression she was…available. Wishful thinking on his part.
“I mean, I’d play with her right now, but you looked like you really wanted me to go and I already overstayed my uninvited visit.”
He couldn’t help smiling. She was genuine and adorable and…damn it, he wanted to shoot her wedding. “No, but I’ll make you a deal. You spend a little time with my niece when it’s convenient, and I’ll give you the most beautiful wedding album you and your”—he angled his head, since it had to be said—“very lucky fiancé could ever imagine.”
Her jaw dropped in surprise. “I’m not getting married.” She pressed her hands to her chest with another laugh. “I’m the stylist.”
So his instinct was right. “And a damn good one, I’d say.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“Yes, I do.” He reached to take a playful tug of her brightly colored hair. “Look how you rock a pink wig.”
A soft flush of that very color rose over her cheeks, making her even prettier and making him damn glad he’d made this deal, a feeling that only deepened as she gave him the details and dates, and finalized dinner plans.
He didn’t know why, exactly, but for the first time in a month, he felt a glimmer of happiness. Probably because he would be getting a camera back in his hands. Or maybe because of the stylist he’d be working with.
As he watched her walk away, he was certain it was the latter.
Chapter Three
Junonia was crowded, even midweek, since the resort’s restaurant had become a destination not only for guests, but for discerning diners from all over Mimosa Key and the mainland, too. Still, Gussie had managed to persuade the hostess to give her a waterfront table, where she waited for her guests with way too many butterflies.
She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. Ari and Willow had high-fived and danced in the office, and even Rhonda Lyons had sounded downright thrilled when Gussie called to confirm dinner with TJ DeMille, famed photographer.
To get him for a wedding was such a coup. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of working with him, of styling the shots and watching him hold the camera with those strong, sexy hands.
Whoa, girl. Keep it professional now. Shaking off the thought, she turned to appreciate the beach view, the panorama awash with a midsummer sunset that turned the nearly still water of the gulf a mix of tangerine and cobalt.
“That’s my favorite color.”
She whipped around at the sound of a man’s voice, meeting a gaze that was as g
orgeous as the water and so… “Blue.”
“No, the orange.” He pulled out the chair closest to her, openly checking out her hair, face, and the lacy yellow sundress she’d chosen to match her mood. “Very pretty.”
“The sunsets at Barefoot Bay are amazing.”
He smiled and unbuttoned a cuff of a crisp white shirt, casually rolling up the sleeve to get comfortable. And torture her with the sight of his masculine forearms. “I didn’t mean the sunset.”
She felt a familiar blush, along with the denial that always popped out when someone complimented her. But before she could speak, he touched the edge of her wig.
“Pretty in pink.”
“Sometimes I wear purple or black.”
He lifted an interested brow, and she braced for the questions, the inevitable “why” she’d fielded for much of her adult life, but it didn’t come. Instead, he unbuttoned the other cuff and folded it up, revealing that string of blue ink she’d seen in the Super Min.
“So, here’s your wedding photographer, reporting for duty.” He winked and helped himself to her water. “But be warned.” He gave a faux toast. “The last time I shot a wedding, I was about seventeen, and I got in trouble for spending too much time in the bridesmaids’ dressing rooms.”
She laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“But the shots were stellar.”
“Still not surprised. I spent a little time this afternoon researching your most recent work.”
“The layout in the Vanity Fair you bought?” He squinted, looking off to the distance as if remembering the shoot. “The lighting in Madagascar was brutal.”
Reminding her just how preposterous it was to have this photographer shooting a wedding. “You really are a master of the art, both fashion and commercial.”
He tipped his head in gratitude. “I try.”
“You succeed. That Fendi campaign? All saturated color and simple shots with complex backgrounds.”
He inched back, amusement making his blue eyes sparkle. “Nice of you to notice.”
“I told you I’m a stylist and I blog about things like that.”
“What’s the blog called? I’ll have to visit it.”
She got a ridiculous thrill at the thought. “Get Gussied Up. I mostly talk fashion and style and blabber on about the weddings we plan and hold right here at Casa Blanca Resort & Spa. Nothing, you know, major like what you do.”
He accepted a water of his own when a waiter stopped by. Which was a shame. Gussie kind of liked the idea of sharing a glass with him.
“Don’t denigrate what you do,” he said. “It’s bloggers like you who get my work out there.”
“I have to say I enjoyed glomming your work today. You really are a storyteller. There’s always so much emotion in your work.”
The amusement left his gaze, darkening to something else as he eyed her long enough to feel a spark of electricity in the air.
“I guess I sound like some kind of fangirl now,” she said.
“Not at all.” He glanced down at the table, his hand casually rubbing his arm, right over the words tattooed there.
“What does that say?” she asked.
He didn’t look up, but his whole body grew still as he lightly grazed the purple ink that wrapped around his muscular forearm. “Panta monos,” he said, turning his arm so she could read the script. “It’s Greek for ‘always alone.’”
She stared at the strange words, barely recognizing the Greek alphabet.
Πάντα μόνος. Always alone.
“Wow. How…” Sad. Serious. Such a personal statement. “Permanent.”
He laughed. “That’s the general idea of a tattoo.”
She stared at the letters. “Always?”
He acknowledged the question with a nod. “Which is why my sister’s decision, or lack of it, is so ironic.”
“Her decision?” What did he mean? She’d done a little snooping around the resort, talking to some of the staff about Ruthie Whitman’s death, and learned that the young, single mother died of an aneurysm while at work as a receptionist in a local dentist’s office.
“Her decision to let me be the one to take care of Alex.”
Gussie gasped softly. “She’s…yours?”
“At least until she’s eighteen.” His jaw set as he stared ahead. “Imagine handing over the care and nurturing of your twelve-year-old daughter to a man who spends three hundred and fifty days of the year on the road, rarely stays in one city for more than a week, works all day, and plays all night.”
That was his life? “Had you and your sister talked about this?”
He closed his eyes and gave his head a slow, dramatic shake. “No, we did not. We really didn’t talk that often at all, a few times a year at best. Her passing was…completely unexpected.” Closing his eyes with obvious grief, he helped himself to a healthy gulp of water. “My schedule doesn’t allow for long family reunions.”
But he was certainly having one now. “So, what are you going to do? Move here?”
He almost choked on the water. “Not likely. But I have to work.” He managed a wry smile. “And there isn’t much demand for high-end photography on Mimosa Key, except for the occasional wedding.”
She returned the smile, still wrapping her head around his predicament. “And there’s no one else?”
“Her father’s out of the picture. We don’t have any other relatives.” He stared out the window, the last rays of sunset reflected in his eyes as he studied the scenery. “I guess I’m going to adjust my life to take care of one very hollowed-out young girl. Which is why I was so moved by your ability to make her laugh today.”
“Hollowed-out?” She sank into the palms of her hands, resting her elbows on the table. “I couldn’t tell that from her at all. I mean, obviously she’s sad, but she didn’t seem…gutted.” But who wouldn’t be in her situation?
“She’s distant and depressed, and I can’t seem to connect with her, no matter how hard I try. And, believe me, I’m usually very good at getting people to take down their defenses, since it’s a big part of my job.”
“Maybe she’s just more comfortable around a woman, since it was only the two of them.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. I’m short on friends in this town, so…”
She reached her hand out and laid it on his arm, right over his Greek pronouncement. “I told you, I love kids. I’d be happy to entertain her when I can. And I won’t make you shoot any more weddings after this.”
He repositioned his hand so he could wrap his fingers around hers, his hand every bit as strong and secure as she’d imagined. “Thanks, Pink.”
The smile pulled at her lips, their eyes locked, their fingers deliciously entwined.
“So this is how you got him?” Rhonda Lyons’s question snapped them apart.
Gussie sniffed a sharp breath as Tom stood, towering over the other woman and her daughter.
Rhonda paled a little, looking up at him, all of her fight fizzling out as the impact that TJ DeMille no doubt had on most women smacked her in the face. She opened her mouth to speak, but her gaze moved from his eyes to his hair to his chest and lower and back up again. Then color returned full force to her cheeks as she finally managed to look at Gussie.
“Can’t say I blame you.”
“Rhonda.” Tom reached out his hand for the most accommodating and warm handshake in the history of greetings. “I can’t tell you how honored I am to photograph your daughter’s wedding.”
The sarcasm, so subtle and sneaky, was lost on Rhonda, who still stared openly. Then Tom turned his killer smile on Hailey, a quiet young woman who’d long ago handed the reins of her wedding to her mother. “And our beautiful bride.”
Hailey was actually speechless as she took his hand.
Meanwhile, Gussie’s heart was slip-sliding around her chest so hard, she could have sworn she heard it crack a little. Great. Just what every girl needs…a crush on the guy who w
anted to be alone, always.
* * *
Rhonda was a cougar with a weakness for vodka. Hailey was a pushover who let her mother run her show. Tom knew exactly how to handle those two—give one more booze and the other some sincere compliments. But the woman on his right was a bit of an enigma, making him want to finish the boring client dinner and get Gussie alone to take off some…layers.
Leaning close to Gussie as they walked out of the restaurant, he whispered in her ear, “Let’s take a walk.”
He felt her shudder a little. “We’re really all ready for the wedding.” In other words, she knew a walk wasn’t to talk about event logistics.
He guided her to the door. “Ready with the bride and mother, but I still have to win over the stylist.”
She laughed as they crossed a pavilion and kicked off their shoes, placing them on a stair that seemed to be built for the express purpose of holding shoes while their owners went barefoot on Barefoot Bay. “I’m won, trust me. I just hope you like my styling technique.”
“You obviously know your business.”
She waved off the compliment. “Not like some of the people you’ve worked with.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d directed a subtle dig at herself. Why wouldn’t a woman as attractive and capable as Gussie be more confident?
“Like Simone Friar,” Gussie continued. “What a stylist. She’s brilliant.”
“And a bitch.”
“Or Max Adelman, who is a genius.”
“And always two hours late.”
“What about Chloe Hartman? She’s got an eye for that shocking pop of color.”
“And a penchant for pot.”
Laughing, she elbowed him. “You’re bursting my bubble. These people are my professional idols.”
“You could do their job and you would be sweet, on time, and not high.”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m not doing their job. I’m a small-town destination-wedding stylist and a part-time blogger. So, let’s get real. Working with you on a shoot is kind of a professional dream come true.”
Hearing the wistful tone, he glanced at her. “That’s your professional dream?”