Brothers of Paradise Series

The woman is a walking painting.

Damn it. I was supposed to be immune. I’d once told her I was.

She rests an elbow on the table, her hand softly curving around her cheek. Long hair flows down her back. Okay. So this woman knows her angles, and she knows them damn well.

“Where are you from in Italy?” she asks Paolo in a soft, mellifluous voice that fits the scenario we’re shooting perfectly. Intimate. Casual. Elegant.

He leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out in front of him, proving that he too knows his angles. I take a step back and alternate between filming and shooting.

“Napoli,” he says.

Ivy leans across the table, an alluring smile on her face. I shoot that too.

“In the south of Italy?”

“You know Napoli?”

“I know of it.” Her eyes light up. I zoom in and snap a few shots of her, just like that, perched on a chair in Rome, no Italian in sight. Anyone could imagine they were on the receiving end of that sweet gaze. Anyone.

“You should visit someday,” he says. “When you have more time.”

“I’d love that-”

“Let’s change the seating arrangement.” I step forward, motioning for Paolo to move.

He shifts closer to Ivy. “Like the set images we received?”

I think of the images that we’d received from this shoot-an elegantly dressed couple practically making out.

I nod. Forming the words would be too difficult.

Ivy leans her head against his shoulder and takes his hand. They sit like that for a while, posing while looking very un-posed, letting me snap pictures. Wine arrives, and they hold it, sipping, gazing at each other. And all the while my camera keeps going. Snap, snap, snap.

Paolo turns to face her. His mouth crooks up and leaning forward, he pushes her hair back. Ivy’s mouth opens softly.

It’s a killer shot. Obligingly, I take it.

I don’t know if I’m happy or annoyed that they’re handling this so well on their own. Do I want to be the one to give directions to this? He’s touching her, and now she’s touching him back.

Her hand is on his shoulder as she bites her lip. There is laughter in her eyes, seduction in her expression.

I photograph them like that, with the quaint Italian trattoria behind them, cobblestones under their feet. We’re selling the Italian dream to tourists, the idea that anyone who comes here on vacation can be what they are. Can look like they do. It’s an illusion, but it’s no less gorgeous for that.

My hands grow tight around my film camera when Paolo leans in to kiss Ivy on the cheek. Her eyes flutter closed and I catch the entire moment, the coy laughter she gives as he pulls away, the way she ducks her head, the way he reaches for his wine and takes a deep sip. He says something I can’t catch and she blushes.

And then I call cut.

“We have everything we need.” I start to pack down my camera and equipment. Photography used to be my secret, hidden joy. At the moment it feels like a death sentence. “Shoot’s over.”

Paolo helps Ivy to her feet, steadying her when her heel gets caught in a cobblestone. Fucking death traps, those. It might make her legs look killer, but I prefer them unbroken. Whatever stylist had chosen her outfits was an idiot.

“You were amazing.” Paolo’s voice is filled with confident swagger. “So talented.”

“Oh, thank you. You did good too.”

“Let me show you Rome tonight,” he offers. “The real Rome, not a set.”

I screw one of the lenses on and ignore the conversation. It’s very, very difficult to.

Ivy’s voice is kinder than it’s ever been when it’s directed just to me. “Oh, I’d love to, but we actually have a bit more of shooting to do. Just Rhys and I-the agency wants a few night shots.”

The agency doesn’t want a few night shots. But I look straight at Paolo as I nod. “Sorry, man.”All content is © N0velDrama.Org.

He gives an elegant shrug. “Another time, then. You’ll be back to Italy, Ivy. I’m sure of that.”

“I can’t wait.” There’s no doubting the sincerity in her voice. Paolo pulls her unnecessarily close to kiss her on the cheek.

“Until next time,” he tells her, before he shakes my hand. His grip is firm. I make mine firmer. Petty, perhaps.

But satisfying.

And then he strolls off, down a street where people turn around to watch him. Like Ivy, he must be more than used to that.

She sinks back down on the chair with a sigh, bending to take off her heels. “I am so hungry. Do you want to go grab a pizza?”

For a brief second, it’s hard to find words. She’d turned down an Italian model for pizza with me? The heady sense of victory that sweeps through me is as unbecoming as it is potent, but it’s there. I shoulder my camera bag and hold out my hand to her.

“Make it two, and you have a deal.”

Ivy

My feet feel ten thousand times better once I’ve switched back to my flats, the beautiful Jimmy Choos back in the bag on my shoulder. I’m starving and tired, but I always am after shoots. It’s supposed to be easy, modeling, or at least that’s what everyone says-including my father. But it’s not. It’s exhausting having to remember what you look like at every single angle at every single second.

Rhys leads the way down the quaint, cobbled street, the air the perfect amount of hot, not humid. “How about the place we saw earlier?” he asks.

“The one that smelled amazing?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the one.” I smile at him, and to my surprise, I get a crooked smile back.

“Surprised you don’t want to go to a Michelin star restaurant,” he says.

“I could say the same about you.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “Me? I’m but a simple man of the people, not a supermodel.”

I roll my eyes at the exaggeration, on both counts. Whatever Rhys is, it’s not simple, and certainly not a man of the people. “Everyone loves pizza, and if they don’t, they’re not human.”