Wildest Dreams

22. Pierre

PIERRE

T oday’s shoot is long and hot. It’s outside at the ballpark again, so I have to go home and shower before seeing Kendall. I wave to Patsy on set, but don’t have time to talk to her.

Marina, on the other hand, is relentless. She catches up to me as I’m walking to my car.

“I called you last night,” she says, her hair bouncing behind her.

“Yeah, I finally blocked your number.”

She shakes her head. “You’re such a tease.”

“I’m not teasing you, Marina. I don’t like you.”

She puts her hand on my arm. “We could be such a power couple. Like Jay-Z and Beyoncé. I don’t understand your problem.”

I push her away, hoping no one snapped another photo of us together. “That’s it, Marina. You want the status. The headlines. The photo ops. You don’t want me. You don’t even know me.”

“But I could.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but this has to stop. Don’t call me anymore. Save whatever feelings you have for the camera.”

With that I leave, the heat of her glare burning a hole in my back.

I shower as soon as I get to the house. There are about thirty mosquito bites on my legs, so I decide to wear jeans to cover them.

I can’t wait to see Kendall. It’s been excruciating, not talking to her this week, which of course has only made me miss and want her more. I can’t stay at her apartment too late. Since shooting this week got pushed back a day because of the rain, we have a full schedule on Main Street tomorrow.

As I’m leaving, an empty nail on the living room wall catches my eyes. It’s about the size of a large photo, and I assume a wedding photo was there at some point. I look around. There are a lot of empty spaces here that once held memories.

Maybe if I could create new memories here, Kendall would come back. She said herself this is her dream house. She shouldn’t let Tucker take that away from her.

I have an idea. Tonight, we’ll make new memories.

* * *

“Y ou weren’t kidding about the flowers.” I stand in the lobby of Kendall’s office, the smell of roses completely overpowering as I look at the mounds of bright buds and dark green leaves covering every surface and half of the floorspace. I hug her and kiss her forehead.

“It’s a little overwhelming, much like you,” she says with a sly grin.

“You deserve every petal and more. I’m only glad I got your attention.”

“I’m sorry to have you come over here again,” she says. “I don’t want any more attention, and there’s nowhere to go without running into someone with a cell phone and a big mouth.”

“Yeah. Even if we drive to Montgomery or Auburn, someone is bound to recognize me.”

We walk upstairs, which is as covered in flowers as the office. I chuckle as she shakes her head. “I told you!” she says.

“I have an idea for these flowers.”

“What’s that?”

“Where’s your camera?”

“At the bottom of the chifforobe. Why?”

“I want to take your picture. We can recreate your Easter picture by the rose bushes.”

“I’m not putting my hair in pigtails.” She crosses her arms over her body and covers her face, like she’s embarrassed.

“You don’t have to. I’d like to photograph you just as you are.”

“But why?” She’s suddenly awkward and putting her walls up. I can feel it.

“Because you’re beautiful, and we have all of these flowers to use as a backdrop.”

She flushes. “I— I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“Why? You can keep your clothes on, I promise.”

Her face turns bright red. “It’s not that. It’s… I’m not photogenic at all. You saw those pictures of me on TMZ.”

I shake my head and walk up to her, holding her face in my hands. “Kendall,” I say, “you’re the most gorgeous person I know. Let me show you how you look through my eyes.”

She sighs but doesn’t say no.

“Besides,” I say. “It’s your camera. If you don’t like them, you can delete them. No one else ever has to know.”

“Fine,” she says. She retrieves the camera and brings it to me.

“Do you know how to use it?”

I take a look. It’s a top-of-line Canon with an L-series versatile lens. She certainly didn’t skimp when picking her equipment. “Yes, this will be perfect. Turn on some music and I’ll get us set up.”

She turns on the Bluetooth speaker and plays a mix of Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, and Kelsea Ballerini. I move the couch against the wall and take some of the largest flower arrangements, setting them up in front of the coffee table, then put more flowers on the table itself. I take a pillow from the bed, put it in front of the flowers, then tell Kendall to sit on the pillow. The flowers behind her give the illusion of standing in front of a wall of roses. I take a pink one, break off the stem, and put it behind her ear, tucking her hair back. She sits still while I do this, her gaze never leaving my face.

“Don’t move,” I say.

I take one of the floor lamps from near the TV and reposition it in front of her, careful to position the shade in such a way that it casts a soft light on her face.

“Perfect.”

I sit on the floor a few feet in front of her. When I pick the camera up and look through the viewfinder, she tilts her head down slightly, giving me a sweet, shy smile. I snap the shutter and she bites her bottom lip. I take another picture of her immediately before I lose that moment. She giggles.

“This is weird,” she says, covering her face. “I’m sorry.”

“Kendall, don’t start with the apologies again.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” She takes a deep breath, pushes her hair back, and repositions the rose behind her ear.

I take at least a hundred more pictures. Halfway through, we each have a glass of wine, which loosens her up a bit. I get a few shots of her mid-belly laugh, which are my absolute favorites.

My phone keeps dinging with emails from Belladonna, so I put it on silent.

“Marina still?” Kendall asks.

“No, I finally blocked her number. This is the director. I’ll check it when I get home.”

She nods, then takes the camera from my hands and turns it on me. “I’m not used to photographing people,” she says. “But it’s only fair.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great. Besides, I have plenty of experience having my picture taken.”

“Of course you do.”

She snaps few dozen of me in front of the flowers, then I take the camera and we pose for a few dozen together. I even get some shots of her kissing me on the cheek and us kissing each other. They aren’t centered as I would’ve liked when we look at them afterwards, but the imperfection somehow makes them more endearing.

After we get up from the floor we move to the windows. She pulls a curtain back and tells me to stand in front of the glass, then turns off all the lights so my face is lit only by the soft moonlight and streetlamps below. She takes a few pictures, which turn out moody and eerily sexy. I snap a few of her in the same spot, then she tells me she wants to shoot me again there, this time with my shirt off.

I raise my eyebrows.

“I said I wasn’t taking off my clothes, but you said nothing about yours.”

“Touché.” I lift my shirt over my head and stand by the window again.

She takes about ten pictures, then lowers the camera and stares at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re stunning,” she says. “I still can’t believe you’re real.”

“Come here,” I say.

She puts the camera on a nearby table between two vases of roses and walks towards me. She looks elegant in the hazy light as I lean down to kiss her. She reaches behind me to close the curtain, then leads me to the bed. When her fingertips trail along my skin, my entire body reacts to her touch with a ravenous hunger that isn’t fully satisfied until well after midnight.