Brothers of Paradise Series

“Fine,” he says.

“Fine,” I repeat.

“I’ll be by the beach. Come on down when you feel inclined to work.” And on that scathing note he strides off, down from my villa and toward the glittering ocean beyond. I force my fists to relax at my sides and to not scream at him that the entire island is a damn beach and how the hell am I supposed to find him?

So he thinks this is beneath him? Doubting my abilities, too, surely.

Well, he’ll see about that.

Ninety minutes later I’m done, dressed in the first of several bikinis the agency had packed, a wide straw hat on my head. My hair is washed and blown out in soft, beachy waves. I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror and feel the familiar flares of self-consciousness. There’s not a model in the industry that doesn’t have the same thoughts, and they’re always magnified ten times over when it’s a swimwear shoot.

But I’ve done my damnedest not to fall into the same pit. I look good. I look strong. The bikini fits well-my agency knows my sizes to a T-and the spray tan they’d made me get is natural. I look good and I refuse to let my job make me doubt that.

I repeat it again. You look good.

And then I stride down the walkway to the beach in search of a photographer I don’t have a shred of trust for. I’ve been photographed by strangers. By photographers that barely spoke English, that I didn’t understand or connect with.

Somehow, though, I have a suspicion that Rhys will be different.

He’s staring at the ocean when I spot him. The beach is deserted-I wonder if that’s the hotel’s doing. Had they cleared it out for our shoot? Looking down, I make sure that my bikini top is still sitting correctly. It is.

And then I clear my throat. “Ready to work?”

Rhys turns, an eyebrow raised and mouth open to deliver a retort. But none comes out. For a magical second, he falters, his gaze taking me in. It’s the briefest of victories, but it’s there.

But his face soon snaps back into the usual mask of cynical nonchalance. “Finally,” he says. “I want to start with you walking along the water’s edge.”

“Challenging,” I say, putting down my water bottle on a nearby table. “From here to there?”

“Yes. I’ll film you walking from behind, panning out to the resort.”

And so I walk. Over and over and over again, the water lapping warmly around my ankles. Rhys doesn’t say a thing. I’ve had silent photographers before, but they’ve never been this silent. It’s like he’s trying to unnerve me.

“Now walk toward me.”

We switch, and go over that a fair number of times. It’s not hard-looking out at the horizon, clutching at my hat, kicking at the lapping water. We do it with his drone, we do it with his camera, over and over and over again. Is he a perfectionist?

I pose on one of the lounge chairs, my legs crossed over, lowering the hat so that it covers my face entirely. He dislikes that pose, though, telling me to change after only a few takes. “You look too…” He frowns. “Posed.”

I grit my teeth and try to look more natural. Like I’m just sitting here. Ignoring the angles I know I look best in is difficult.

“Look back at me, yes, like that.”

I do what he says, but what comes over me then, well… I look straight into the lens-into Rhys’s eyes-and lean back on the chair with my arms bent. It’s a provocative pose, and he keeps snapping. Slowly, I twist around onto my stomach, my head on my hands.

He’d insulted my dedication earlier.

Well, let him watch me work.

And work we do. It’s endless suggestions, poses, stand there and stand here. I accept a drink from one of the staff in about a thousand different variations that I never get to taste.

The sun is just beginning to set when he lowers the camera. “Getting tired?”

“No.” Not that I would ever admit that to you.

His lip curls. “Good. The sun is about to set this sky on fire.”

I stand, dusting off a bit of sand from my legs. “Where do you want me?”

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

I can’t raise just one eyebrow like he can, but I do my best to smirk. “Is this a test?”

“No. It’s me asking you to do your job.”

Asshole. “And I have free rein?”

“Yes.”

He wants me to fail. We’ve already shot practically everything on this beach, from every possible angle. I’ve done everything there is to do.

Well.

Not everything.

I’ve long since tossed the straw hat to the side. Walking down the warm, white sand, I step past the waterline. Warm water laps at my feet. It feels like a crime to be on this beautiful beach with the entire Caribbean stretched out in front of us and not swim.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

I look back at him, standing in knee-deep water with the blazing sky behind me.

Rhys looks back at me. And slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifts up his camera.

These poses come effortlessly. Reaching down to feel the water, turning to beckon to someone on the beach, looking up at the beautiful sky. And with each step I’m deeper in the water. It laps around me like a blanket of warmth.

I dip my head back and wet my hair entirely. It drips down my back as I emerge, grinning, the sky now a marvelous mixture of purples and oranges above me.

Rhys takes another picture.

I swim toward him on the beach, and when I get to the shoreline, I don’t get up. I lie on my stomach instead, my head on my hands, and look at him like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened. The only thing I’ve ever wanted in life.

Rhys falters, finger on the shutter.

And then he sinks down to his knees and keeps shooting. I close my eyes and lie like that for a moment. The photographer dislikes me, and yet this is the best shoot I’ve ever done. I’m on a beach in the Caribbean. Nothing else comes close.

When I open my eyes, Rhys has moved back, still snapping pictures. He lowers the camera when he sees me watching him again.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

“The sun is almost gone,” he says finally. “No more light.”