Boston (3 page)

I nod, swallowing hard. The thought of his hands on Annalise’s breasts is not as appealing as him on the bike. I try to look casual. “That sounds great.”

He laughs. “Oh, it will be. Of course, you’ll need to be there, too.” For a split second I think maybe he means that he wants me naked alongside Annalise, and I picture his hands on my breasts, but he breaks in with, “Since you’re the author, you’ll need to be there to help direct. Lise and Chelle are cool with it—they both agree.”

“Oh.” I gather my thoughts. “But I mean, if I told you what the shot should sort of look like, I don’t presume—I mean, you should use your artistic license from there.”

“But I need to know how it looks in your head so I can match the book.” His voice is low, sensual. “I know you’re a bestseller, Abby. I want my pictures to be perfect. I want us to knock this out of the goddamn park.” There’s something else in his voice, something hungry, that note I didn’t hear at the club. It’s the first time I’m a hundred percent sure he wants this.

“We will. I’m positive.” Our eyes are locked.

Boston breaks the gaze first; he picks up his coffee cup and walks back to the studio, so I follow with my cup, careful not to spill. He gestures at his setup. “Do you like high key?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh. Yeah. Basically a picture that’s almost overexposed, where the whites are really white—very light. I think the ones of Annalise by herself, some of the faces, should be like that.” He gestures at the photo on the wall of her face, the one I admired earlier. “Like that one. See how the skin is creamy and clear, and the whole thing glows?”

I nod. “Gorgeous. Some full length, though, too, with that glow. Maybe her with one arm over her head, leaning against the wall, looking right at the camera?”

He sets down the coffee cup and flips open his laptop on a small work table adjacent to the studio. “C’mere, I’ll add that to my list.”

I stand beside him, then come in closer and duck my head down so I can see against the glare, putting my chin level with his head. He’s created an Excel spreadsheet entitled
“Potential Shots for Abby’s Book”
and there’s a master list of over one hundred poses, along with columns for details like lighting setup, props, Photoshop treatment, and more. It’s massive and intricate.

“Wow. This is really impressive. I didn’t know you put this much thought into it.” I’m blown away by the detail, and embarrassed about my thoughts from this morning. “It looks so—complex! This must have taken hours.”

My voice must betray my surprise. He turns his head to look at me, a sharp motion. “It did. I’m detail oriented, Abby.” His eyebrows are furled. “What did you think I was going to show you, a sketch on the back of a napkin?”

“Uh.” The truth is that I sort of did. “Noooo…” I extend the word, “but this is—more than I thought you’d do at this point. But I like it. I love it!”

“You know, I may not have a fancy college degree from Harvard like you, but I can get stuff done when I put my mind to it.” He pushes his rolling chair back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No!” I protest, my eyebrows zinging up into my brow line, feeling a sick guilt in my stomach. Could he read my mind? “Boston, I just—we didn’t talk details yet, you know? Last night you were—I mean, you were flirty, which is fun, but. This is my life, my job, my salary. It’s important to me. I wasn’t sure yet if you were willing to put serious effort into this. You weren’t exactly professional.”

His scowl darkens. “Abby, you came to the club where I dance. Sexy. For drunk women who grind up on me and put money in my G-string. A little flirtation is pretty much par for the course there, okay? And as I recall, you flirted right back with me and asked me if I can, and I quote,
bring it
. I’m sorry if I came off a little too blue-collar for you. I’ll try to be more professional from now on. Classier.”

I bite my lip. I feel a little panicked, not sure how to get things back on even ground, and try to make my voice easy. “Boston. I’m sorry. I love your photography, and you have the perfect look for my book. I’m glad we’re working together. That you want to do this. Okay?”

His face softens. “This is a big deal to me, Abby. I think our partnership is going to be a big deal for both of us. I do take this seriously. I didn’t read your books; I’m not a big fiction reader. But I researched you online and saw what a big seller you are in the romance book world. And I know nobody has done this kind of thing before.”

His eyes are bright and earnest. I feel a mix of embarrassment and desire, and the feelings confuse me. I nod, then duck my head, my voice contrite. “So, um, will you show me what you have so far?”

For the rest of the morning we work through his list, item by item, changing some details, adding new posing ideas. I don’t ask to change much, though. It’s like he read my mind and put together the perfect list of ideas based on my rough emails. It’s amazing. Still, I pull up my book on my laptop and scroll through, making sure that there are enough shots outlined for each chapter.

He’s intense and focused, and I like seeing his powerful hands typing on his laptop keyboard. His fingers are long and tapered at the ends, with short blunt nails. His hands looks strong, sensual. As he enters some lighting reminders for himself, I daydream about how those fingers would feel on my skin. His hand was warm last night when he took mine, his grip firm. He’s so confident in his skin; I imagine that he’d be pure pleasure in the bedroom, full of even better moves than those he showed on stage. But he’s not being so flirty anymore, and I feel disappointed, even though I’m ecstatic that he’s actually into this project and smarter than I expected.

When we finally finish, he stands up and stretches, then crosses his arms over his chest. “So, Abby, you want to make it official? We’ll get a contract written up?”

I nod. “Let’s do it. I have a, um, friend who’s a lawyer. Would you be okay if I have him draft it? I’ll cover the cost. Well, actually, I’m pretty sure he’ll do it for free if I ask nicely.” I smile and swing one foot, thinking of Erik. I can still sweet-talk him into anything.

Boston frowns. “Abby, one thing I’ve learned as a businessman trying to make my way in the industry is that favors and work don’t mix. If your friend’s good, I trust your judgement, but I don’t want it for free. I’ll split the cost with you.”

I stand up, knocking the chair a bit, and grab at it. “Erik would never cause any issues. He’s a cool guy. I make decent—I can cover it, but he’s, really, he’ll do it for me for no charge.”

He stands his ground. “I pay my way, Abby. We’re partners now, so you do, too.”

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.” I hear my tone sharpen a bit.

His voice stays even. “I’ve run into a lot of egos and weird situations in the modeling and photography world. It’s better for us to do things straight up. Besides. If this book is going to be the bestseller we both think it is, we can cover the upfront cost of a simple legal contract, yeah?”

I nod. “Fine,” I say, then feel compelled to add, “Authors do favors for each other all the time. Like, I host someone on my blog and then she writes me a review. I help tweet about someone’s release, and she recommends me to her fans on her Facebook page.”

He gives me a look. “A contract from a lawyer friend is a hard cash favor. I don’t take handouts.”

I shrug, put my hands up. “We’ll pay for it. Want me to talk to him today to get the draft started and we can meet later this week to sign?”

He nods. “Do it. I’ll get Chelle to start with some of the solo shots of me. I have a bunch of jobs this week but she can do the wall shots, the pushups, the ones of me in the shower.”

My mind shoots to the shower, imagining his body with water droplets, how nice he’d look slick and wet. I try to focus. “Great. And of course I’ll continue working on the book.” I think about my home office and remember Marr, and the way she’s redoing her entire house next door to me. I wince.

I glance at his desk, run my fingers over the wood. “I love your setup. That window has the best lighting and side garden is so pretty… and quiet. Marr is having renovating done and the workers are so loud. All day with the power saws and the grinders. I can’t focus. I need some background chatter, but not the kind that gives me a migraine and shakes my floor. I could get so much work done here.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What?” My heart races.

He steps closer, his voice intense. “You can work here, Abby. A little background noise with my models and work, but no drills. And we’ll be close, and that’s good for the project. You can coach me on shots. And if I have a good photo idea, maybe you could write it into your story. What do you say?”

What do I say? Working with him this closely is unnecessary. But the truth is I want to be near him all day, watching him work, watching his face, his arms, hearing his voice. Even if it goes nowhere like that, it sounds… fun. Exciting. And good for my sexy-times writing, for the reason I mentioned earlier (my authorial secret writing weapon of delayed gratification.) And it would be way better than the coffee shop or the taco place with free Wi-Fi on the corner.

I swallow. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Good.” He smiles. “So from now until we finish, this space is yours.” He waves his arm toward the window desk. “I’ll get rid of all this shit so you can set it up the way you want.”

“I don’t need a lot of room,” I protest. “Just space for my laptop and mouse. And my Starbucks.”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “You’re not bringin’ that crap into my house. I’ll make your coffee, Abby.” His voice rolls over me like a caress, and I bite my lip.

“Okay. Then maybe I can bring breakfast.” I stop. “Uh, what do you eat in the morning? Leeks and turnips, or something? Celery?”

He laughs. “Protein. Five or six scrambled eggs with veggies. I cook my own in organic butter or coconut oil. I’ll teach you about Paleo eating, Abs. Get you fit and healthy. Good changes.”

I cross my arms. “I eat fine, okay? I don’t need to change anything.” I blink hard at the way my eyes swell with crazy disappointed tears, forcing them back.

His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—I was just, you know, I know a lot about healthy eating and what’s good for the heart and cholesterol and blood pressure. I eat this way because it works, you know? Because it’s best for the body. I was just sayin’ what I say to friends who ask me to coach them on fitness. Sorry. But I wasn’t trying to say anything about—” He breaks off. He’s looking at me now, assessing, a coach looking at a recruit, I think, and I feel horrible.

I swallow. A ray of sun comes through that large window and hits a picture of a female model like a spotlight, and her perfect curves and slender legs and flat stomach gleam. I grab my laptop bag. “I’ll contact Erik to start the contract. And then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” My voice is a little stiff. What the hell was I doing, fantasizing about him this whole time? He dates women who grace the covers of magazines, women who turn heads just by walking into the grocery store.

“Yeah, okay.”

I fight back tears, which is ridiculous, because he didn’t do anything except make some offhand comment. “See you tomorrow,” I say, attempting to inject a note of cheerful bonhomie into my voice.

“See you,” he replies, his expression serious, and I get into my car and do a brisk wave. As I drive off, my face is hot and I feel waves of unhappiness swelling around me. Why, oh, why wasn’t I born with a long, lean frame and waving blond hair? Why don’t I have the willpower to hit the gym every day, twice a day, three times if necessary until I look like utter supermodel perfection? Why am I so addicted to junk food? What’s wrong with me?

I’m not going to cry about this, because it’s a waste of time, but I spend my entire ride home agonizing over my thighs and stomach and wondering if my gym membership is still active or not, and how quickly I could lose ten pounds.

Erik grabs me and gives me a big hug. “Abby! It’s good to see you.”

I smile and push my chin into his shoulder, and a wave of nostalgia flows past before winking out. His hair, his cologne, the dryer sheets he uses: I remember this. I stay in his embrace for just an extra second before pulling back to look at him. “New suit?”

“Yes, I redid my fall wardrobe using the latest copy of
Vogue
.” He smirks at me. I used to tease him and call him a metrosexual because he dresses so well. “So you’re working with models, now? Maybe I should hang around and learn some style tips.”

I punch his arm. “You and me both.” I sigh. His sandy brown hair is getting long; he needs a trim. I notice that he looks as fit as ever, and his green eyes have that usual sparkle.

He gives me an expressive look. “You’re not back on that.” Erik is well-acquainted with my body-image issues and always did his best to assuage them, but for some reason—even though I know his heart was in the right place—it never worked. Probably because it’s something I have to do for myself.

I laugh and perch on the edge of his desk, cross my legs, and swing the top one. “You just wait until you meet some of them. You’ll see what I mean. But yeah, I’m really excited about this project. Nobody has done this in the romance novel world, Erik, ever.” Like always, my confidence surges back when I think about my work, my craft, my creativity. I smile at him, excited. “I think it’s going to be such a huge hit.”

“So I’ll look for your cover on a billboard near me soon,” he suggests, then leans back on the desk next to me and hands me a thick printout. “Take a look at what I drafted up. I got all the points you wanted, and put in all the information about how you’ll split the money and royalties in the future from other licensing opportunities as they arise. And we can always amend later.”

I hear Boston’s voice from beyond the half-open door. “Um, hi. I’m Parker Minelli, here to see Erik Nyland?” His voice is uncertain, and Erik’s admin responds, “Yes, of course, they’re expecting you, go right in.”

Boston comes in and I catch my breath. He’s in a suit!—he dressed up for this. It’s cute and sort of embarrassing to me that he felt he needed to dress up to see Erik. Business casual would have been fine! I mean, it’s not like we live in the 1900s or high society or something. But Boston is looking very fine, so I focus on that. The white of his shirt is crisp against his dark suit and hair, and once again I’m taken aback at how very handsome he is.

Boston looks at me on the desk, Erik next to me, and his gaze hardens. He strides up to Erik and sticks out his hand. “I’m Parker Minelli. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Erik stands up and gives over his hand. “Likewise. I’m glad to work with you and Abby. I have the rev zero contract drafted up for your approval. Let’s all sit at my conference table,” he gestures to the side of the room where a round table is surrounded by padded chairs, “and I’ll go through it with you both.”

Boston rotates his shoulder and adjusts his sleeve, then sits down. He glances at me. “So we just, are we goin’ to read the whole thing right here?” His gaze moves, uncertain, to the stack of legal-sized printouts.

Erik answers, “I’ll go through it page by page, but we don’t need to read all the fine print. I’ll tell you everything that’s included, and you let me know if it matches what you want.”

Boston nods. He’s sitting upright, his back straight, tapping the fingers of his left hand on the tabletop. But as Erik starts to detail the line items, his body relaxes and he leans in, adding comments. I let my mind drift, thinking about how well the suit fits him. Erik is always stylish, cute, but Boston is—hot. Erik is suave and trendy, Boston is hard-edged and gritty and oozes sexuality. I find myself tilting in my seat to lean just a little bit closer to Boston, and right myself with embarrassment. I’m such a dork.

Oh. They’re waiting for me to say something. “Abby? ” Erik raises his eyebrows, taps a passage with his silver pen.

“Um, say it again?” I flush, scanning the text.

“Parker suggested adding a section about payments for Annalise O’Reilly and Chelle Lambeau, since they’re working with you, too. I agree that it makes sense to include them upfront, instead of trying to work out a payment in a separate contract.”

Boston adds, “I’m covering the cost of Annalise’s modeling fee, and Chelle’s salary, but we need to add in that they won’t get royalties from future sales like you and I will.”

“Yes.” Why didn’t I think of that? I’m such an amateur when it comes to things like contracts. But that’s why we came to Erik, right?

“So we’ll need to review with Annalise and Chelle then, and once all of you sign it, it will be official.” Erik caps his pens and picks up the contract. “I’ll edit and get this back to you soon. Sound okay?”

I stand up and glance around the room as my stomach rumbles. “It’s great. Hey, I only had coffee this morning and I need a pick-me-up. Do you still keep snacks around?”

He points to the low counter with a Keurig, and I prance over, open the cupboard above it, and pull out a package of Oreos. I shove one into my mouth. “These are more addictive than cocaine,” I announce, wiping my hands together and grinning. “I heard it on NPR. Want one?”

Erik shakes his head. “I keep those for the kids who come in with parents, Abby.” But his voice is fond. “Parker, feel free—if you want anything.”

I close the cupboard more firmly than necessary. “I think Boston is allergic to these.”

Boston snorts. “High fructose corn syrup, saturated fat, mono- and diglycerides—that shit is poison to the system, Abby.”

I bite my lip and lick off more crumbs (God. How does one cookie make a million tiny shards of Loser on my face?), feeling like a disgusting slob. “Yeah. Um, you know, they’re good for a quick energy rush, though.” My voice is kind of mean. “For us mortals who aren’t built like Greek gods or who never had time to work out five or six hours a day because we had to attend graduate school and stuff.”

“That’s not what I—” Boston begins, a frustrated look on his face.

Erik steps in. “And if the kids are climbing the walls from a sugar high, then they’re allowing mom and dad to review the contract, so we all win. Wall-climbing is in these days, you know. Even my local gym has a rock-climbing wall.”

Laughter, crisis averted, Erik is Super Mediator like always. I relax and Boston’s scowl dissipates. We make some small talk that includes great, thanks, awesome, appreciate, and opportunity. Blah, blah. Now it’s time to go.

Erik hugs me again. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” he murmurs. I stiffen, even as the words warm me, darting a glance at Boston.

“You too,” I say.

Boston turns. “I need to get back to my studio. You comin’ by later, Abby?” His voice is harder than before.

“Yes. See you soon.” I smile.

He walks out without a backward glance, and I look after him, blinking.

Erik notices. “Are you having a thing with him?” His voice is curious, but not jealous.

I shake my head. “No.”

“No?”

“I said
no
, Counselor.” I snap it out, then amend with, “We just met, Erik. And we’re from different worlds. I don’t think...” But I don’t know what it is that I don’t think, so I stop there.

He shrugs. “But maybe a different world is what we need this go-around.” He swallows, looks away. “You know?”

I shrug back. “Who knows what any of us need. You—you’re great, you know that?”

He smiles. “You, too. Oh, that reminds me, my mom asked if red is still your favorite color.”

“It is.” I grin. Erik’s mom is awesome, and if I were in the market for a new mom, she’d be head and shoulders above Marr in the “Abby’s New Mom” competition. She’s warm, smart, savvy, and utterly fun. Sometimes I think that the worst part of the breakup with Erik was losing that ready-made family, but his mom is making it clear that I’m still welcome in the Nyland fold.

“So who’s this… Annalise?” Erik turns back to his desk, arranging papers.

“I don’t know. Parker’s ex. She’s a model. Gorgeous. She’ll be great in pictures.” I shrug, feeling that weird mix of gratitude and excitement at the opportunity to have her in the book along with a distinct I-don’t-want-to-meet-her vibe.

Erik’s voice is casual. “I, um, Googled her, when you said she’d be part of the project. Looks like she’s done some pretty cool stuff.”

“Uh, huh.” I’ve Googled her, too.

Erik turns back to me, smiles. “Sounds like a win for you all. I hope this project works out well.”

“Thanks. Me, too.” Understatement of the year. Of my
life
. I’ve never wanted something more. If those people who write the self-help books are right, then I’m pretty much going to make my success materialize out of thin air with the force of my convictions, with the strength of my passion. And my quick fingers, typing out my best novel to date.

Erik adds, “Hey, if you want, I can come by the studio and drop off the contract when it’s done. I’m curious to see how it all looks there. And, you know, meet your new coworkers.” He twirls his silver pen and drops it, fumbles to grab it from his desk.

“Not necessary,” I tell him. “Besides, it will be busy the next few days. He’s going to be doing a lot of shots with Annalise and stuff, and it’s just as easy for me to swing by here next week. I’ll call you.”

***

I’m at Boston’s studio, sitting in that window seat I admired, laptop open. Behind me, Boston is talking with two female models; he’s doing some girl/girl pictures for a lesbian romance cover by an author I know on Facebook. Small world. I wonder if she’d be excited or irritated if I messaged her something about how I’m seeing her cover live in progress even before she sees it, and decide not to, because we’re not that close.

We did a quick introduction but now I’m back at work, distracted. They totally don’t mind that I’m here; Boston asked them ahead of time. They said they can concentrate just fine and won’t feel violated. Ha!

Me, though? I’m not so sure I can focus. I’m intrigued by this, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get a single sentence written. It’s not as loud, decibel-wise, as the workmen at Marr’s house, but their words and movements reverberate in my brain, sending out ripples and echoes into remote parts of my psyche, locking me into an endless loop of rumination and reflection and desire.

“So we’ll start with you and Kelsey standing together, looking into each other’s eyes, okay?” Boston’s voice is low and smooth as he adjusts something on a camera. I peek over. “Ashley, rest your hand on Kelsey’s hip, splay out your fingahs, but gentle. Don’t dig in, just relax them.”

The women get into position in front of the backdrop, and one of them adjusts her thong. They’re both topless, and their tits are magnificent. I swivel my chair to watch, spellbound now.

“Like this?” The one named Ashley frowns, adjusts her hand.

“Yes, just a little lower,” Boston instructs. “Yes! Like that. Stay there. Now Kels, you step in just a few inches so your hip brushes hers, and twist your body. I want this to look provocative, like you’re just about to kiss. Both of you lick your lips, get them wet for the shot.”

Both women moisten as directed, and then look into each other’s eyes. Ashley giggles. “Oh, my God. You look so serious.”

Kelsey giggles, too. “Pretend I’m David Beckham. Right?”

“Eh, he doesn’t do it for me. How about Joe Manganiello?”

They titter together until Boston reprimands, “Ladies, please. Let’s focus.”

“Okay, boss,” says Kelsey in mock-complaining voice, and adjusts her thong again. “This keeps riding up my ass. So annoyin’.” She wiggles. “Got it. I’m ready.”

The two women get into character and Boston shoots. I rise from my chair and stretch, then walk behind Boston so I can watch from his vantage point. I want to see what he sees.

“Ash, now wrap your hand around her waist a little more, pull just a bit, pull her hips to you. I want to capture that action, so do it a few times, ‘kay?”

I think this move can work for my new story in progress, the one I’m working on right now. I imagine my hero, his hand on my heroine’s small waist, his hard, blunt-edged fingertips pulling her in to his hips. I think about them looking into each other’s eyes, her lips wet, about to kiss him.

“It’s writing itself,” I announce, and Boston gives me a quick glance.

“Abby?”

“Inspiration.” I smile at him and swing back into my chair, my fingers dancing over the keys as I write the new scene. I needed a sex scene, and now one is growing in my mind, taking shape. It’s like mental cotton candy, spinning from thin air into something fluffy and ethereal and utterly delicious, like magic in motion. The voices soften into a blend of comfortable background as I write, immersed in my screen, my focus intent. Nothing else exists outside my personal space, and I know it’s good, what I’m writing right now.

I jerk in surprise at a touch on my shoulder, some time and about two thousand words later. “Abs? Kels and Ash are leavin’ now.”

I nod, stand up, and my knee cracks. I didn’t move the whole time I was writing.

“It was nice to meet you,” I say. Should we shake hands? Hug? Air kiss? How about nothing?