Brothers of Paradise Series

“This is your itinerary.” The shoot director pulls up a list on a giant screen, his over-styled hair like a helmet on his head. It doesn’t move when he turns.

And I’m to take direction from him?

“You’ll start in our Caribbean resort and end in our newest hotel in Sydney, Australia, still under construction. That’ll be fifteen days solid of traveling and shooting. We know it’ll be grueling, so we’ve put in a few rest days here and there.”

Ben winks at me.

I shake my head at him.

“Star Models will provide all the clothes for Ivy. They’ll be clearly marked for each day and each shoot for you.”

“I’ve been briefed,” Ivy says. She’s composed herself into the picture of calm professionalism, but there’s a note of annoyance in her voice.

Yeah, I’m not happy about this either.

“Rieler will be in charge of all the logistics. You’ll have contact personnel at each location; they’ll be the ones to pick you up at the airports, drop-offs, arranging transportation to locations where you might want to shoot. Suggestions will be available at each place for you, Rhys.”

I tip my head in a shallow nod. I’ll find my own shot locations.Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

Helmet-Hair swallows and continues. “As you’ve both been briefed, I’m sure, we’re looking for both pictures and moving images. Filming clips that can be used for a travel video. On this note, I was informed that Rhys would handle all that, as well?”

It’s unusual as hell, that Ben is giving me this much leeway. “I will,” I say.

And despite Ivy’s presence, the challenge burns in my veins. I can see the shots I want to film already. One of my drones is packed, set to take aerial shots of locations.

“Excellent. We’ll be here all the time if you have any questions. Just a phone call away. You can never ask us enough questions.” Helmet-Hair laughs to soften the blow of his words. He’s not sure about this at all-nor, I’m guessing, is Rieler’s creative team. Hiring two marketing teams is unusual.

Even more so when one is the owner’s friend.

Ivy is the one who thanks him. “We appreciate that,” she says smoothly. “Thank you for your detailed itinerary and all the suggestions on locations, shoots and angles. It’s very appreciated, and we’ll remain in contact throughout.”

Helmet-Hair blinks twice, dazed.

Ivy smiles wider, confident in her ability to dazzle.

My jaw works. I don’t need or want her to speak for me.

The rest of the meeting is formalities and paperwork and repetition of the word collaboration. This is a collaboration. How many times did it need to be said for them to beat me over the head with it?

Ben is the one who stands, stretching his legs. “I think we’ve hammered out all the details we can here. How about we leave Rhys and Ivy to get better acquainted and I’ll show you some of Rieler’s newer projects?”

And just like that, I’m left alone in the now claustrophobic conference room with a model staring daggers at me.

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against one of the walls of the corporate bastion. “Nice to see you’re allowed to talk today.”

There. That’s a good ice-breaker.

Ivy’s eyes narrow. “The travel agency couldn’t find a more qualified photographer to hire?”

It’s cute she thinks that would hurt me.

So she doesn’t know about the bet, nor the two marketing teams… or the fact that we’re the B team.

“I suppose they couldn’t,” I respond. “Just like the modeling agency didn’t have someone better to send?”

Her eyes flash. It does nothing to mar her beauty. The woman could be screaming in anger and she’d still be photogenic. It’s a nauseating level of perfection. And like the artificially enhanced images on the walls, it feels like a mirage.

“I’ve already thanked you for diving into the pool to help.”

“I know you have.”

A muscle works in her jaw, like she wants to say something but knows she shouldn’t. “I’m surprised you even accepted this project,” she says. “Must be unbearable for you to work with a model for fifteen days, considering your low opinion of the profession.”

A spark of amusement at her words. She gives as good as she gets, this woman. “Thanks for the concern,” I tell her. “I think I’ll manage, though.”

She swipes up a hardbound book from the table and clutches it to her chest. Her portfolio? “Good, because I’m committed to holding up my end of this collaboration.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Excellent,” I say, glancing from her to a picture of a smoothie bowl against a Bali sunset. This is beyond childish.

Her voice is collected again. “We don’t have to like each other to do this job. We just have to be professional,” she says.

Right. Because photography never includes a measure of trust. I run a hand through my hair, cursing at how easily this woman has managed to goad me.

If I’m going to pull this bet off, I need to find a way to get onto her good side.

“I’ll be professional.” I grab one of the printed itineraries from the table, reading from the top as I make my way to the door. “I’ll see you next week at three thirty at the Diplomatic Hotel in St. Barts.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I’ll see you there.”

I wake to blinding lights through my windows, New York’s sun not the least bit diminished by the construction outside. A pounding headache, too, courtesy of Ben’s insistence that we share celebratory drinks last night. As if spending the last weekend in the Hamptons with him hadn’t been enough.

I prefer him in small doses, like I do with most everyone. Anyone becomes grating in large quantities, and that includes myself.

I drag myself out of bed and walk through my apartment. Stacks of books line the wall to my office. Manuscripts, potential projects. Brew a cup of coffee as I sort through the emails in my phone. A few from one of my editors, excited about the latest photography book we’re publishing. Running a small publishing company isn’t as much of a one-man show as my family likes to think.

My hand stops over an email from Ben.

We’d just been out last night.

But my scrolling stops as I read the headline. Ivy Hart’s contact details.

And it comes back to me. The conversation we’d had, the anger in her dark-blue eyes. The challenge I’d looked forward to has become something genuinely challenging.

I run a hand over my face and head into the living room. Pause in front of the display cabinet where I keep my cameras.