Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1) (10 page)

"Okay, Nic," Melissa says after a while. "Spill."

"I freaked out," I say. "Ryan asked me to dinner and we were having a great time. He's so easy to talk to. I can't remember the last time I felt so comfortable. Even after all those years, I felt like I had to walk on eggshells with Jason. Tonight was so different. I forgot what it was like to just chill and be
me
with someone."

"There's a pretty big disconnect here," Melissa says. "How do you go from that, which sounds lovely, to flipping your shit and calling me in for a dramatic rescue?"

I press my fingers over my eyes. I am such an idiot. "I heard some people at another table talking about me."

"You realize you were probably imagining it."

"No, I wasn't this time," I say. "I heard what they were saying. They called me sad because I'm one of
those
girls who can't be alone."

"Is that what this is about?" Melissa turns in her seat so she’s facing me. "First of all, fuck them. They don't know you. They don't know anything that's going on in your life. It's easy to sit around and gossip over a fucking pizza. It's none of their goddamn business."

I lean my head against the seat. "I know."

"No, you don't know," she says. "You aren't one of
those
girls. You're Nicole Prescott. You're smart and beautiful, and life just took a big fat dump in your lap. You need to quit spending your precious energy giving a shit what everyone else thinks. Do you know what some people said about me when I started my job at the elementary school? That I must not have been able to make it in the outside world. I had to come running back to the beach after college and go work at the same school I went to. You know what? Fuck them right in the ass. I came back here because this is my home. I love this stupid town. I’ve wanted to teach at that damn school since forever. So I did. And I love my job, even when those little shits piss me off. I don't care what those gossipy bitches think about me, and you shouldn't care either."

I close my eyes. I know Melissa is right. I envy her ability to brush off other people's opinions. She's always been that way. What people think and say about me seems so important in the moment. But why? What do I care?

"Oh my god, I'm such a horrible person," I say. "I just walked out on him, didn't I? I freaked out and I ran. He probably thinks it's his fault."

"Yeah, he probably does."

I give Melissa a sidelong glance. "Thanks. That's so helpful."

"You should call him."

She’s absolutely right. I bring up his number and hit send. It rings once. Twice. I meet Melissa's eyes. She gives me an encouraging, if worried, smile. Third ring. Fourth. I shake my head slowly and his voicemail picks up. I hang up without leaving a message. I’m not sure what to say, and at least he’ll see I tried to call.

"He didn't answer," I say.

"Maybe he turned his phone off."

"Yeah, I guess," I say. But I know he’s avoiding my call. "I'll try again tomorrow."

"Sure," Melissa says. She starts her engine. "I'll get you home. Unless you want to go get a drink or something."

"Thanks Mel, but no. I think I want to eat a tub of ice cream, then go to bed and berate myself for being an idiot until I fall asleep."

"Sounds productive," she says.

I sigh. I don’t know why I have such a hang-up about what people say about me. Melissa is right; it shouldn't matter. Saying I can’t help it is a cop out, but that's honestly how it feels. I don’t know what it would be like to throw caution to the wind and live my life without looking over my shoulder, without wondering who’s judging me.

Maybe I’ll go up to Ryan's place in the morning. I owe him at least an in-person apology. I hope he'll be willing to talk to me, but I can’t blame him if he isn’t.

My phone lights up with Nicole's number, but I toss it onto the passenger seat without answering. I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I don’t want to deal with her drama. Did someone come in and switch women while I was in the bathroom? I was in the middle of a fucking fantastic date—and it most certainly turned into a date—when she literally did a one-eighty on me. Damn my bladder. I’d been holding it for a while at that point, but if I knew she'd be all weird when I got back from the bathroom, I would have waited. Did I say something that freaked her out? Did she get a phone call while I was gone?

Oh, shit. I bet she got a call from douchebag Jason.

That makes a little more sense, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. My head is spinning. She was so easy to talk to. I can’t remember feeling so relaxed with a woman, maybe ever. I dated too many models who sat with me and picked at their food. It was so distracting, watching a woman shift the contents of her plate around, taking tiny bites, clearly calculating the calorie count of each morsel. One woman even brought a protein shake to dinner. She didn't want anything but water for her little shaker bottle—she emptied in that powdered shit, shook it up, and that was that. She spent the rest of the meal watching me eat.

But Nicole—she attacked that pizza with gusto, clearly enjoying her dinner. We laughed and joked around. I found myself telling her stories about my time in L.A. that I never share with anyone. And when I touched her. Oh my god. What was that? I wanted to grab her by the wrist and pull her out to my car, and who knew if we'd make it anywhere? I wanted to know what she tasted like, what her hot ass would feel like in my hands. My constant hard-on throughout dinner aside, I thought we were having fun. It was so easy with her.

Until it wasn't.

What did Jason want? I know some girls have a hard time leaving a guy, even if they’ve been hurt. And she was with him a long time. Maybe he had something she couldn't resist. I have no idea what that would be, but I never understood why she was with him in the first place. And if it wasn’t Jason, then what had happened?

I step on the gas, flying up the highway. With the way this night is going, I'll probably get a ticket, but I don’t care. I just want to get away from town, back to the solitude of my place. I have a shoot in the morning, so I need time to relax so I can be on my game. I pride myself on giving my clients my best, no matter what I’m shooting. Tomorrow I have a boudoir session, and those are so intimate. I love doing them. Women absolutely fascinate me—their curves, their strength, their fragility, their sensuality. Bringing that out in a photograph feels like magic, especially when my subject isn’t a paid model. Regular, everyday women, with their folds and wrinkles and curves in the wrong places. They all have this fire, this passion inside of them. A beauty that goes beyond the shape of their bodies. It’s exciting to bring that out. Truth be told, it’s a fucking turn-on, even if I’m not attracted to the woman I’m shooting. There’s this moment, when they finally let their inhibitions drop—when they relax and let out the inner sexuality they’ve been repressing. God, it’s glorious.

But if I’m going to bring that out in my client in the morning, I need to get Nicole out of my mind.

I spend the night tossing and turning. My bed is usually my favorite thing. It’s so damn comfortable, I always fall asleep seconds after my head hits the pillow. But I can’t sleep. The bed feels too big. Too empty.

This is stupid. Whatever spooked Nicole, she obviously has issues she needs to work through. Whether it’s douchebag Jason, or something else, it’s not up to me to fix her. I can barely hold myself together.

Morning comes way too soon, and I make a big pot of coffee. I wander out into my studio to set things up for my shoot. My client, Joanna, is someone I tried to work with before, but she got too anxious and decided to reschedule. She’s a sweet lady, in her forties with a couple kids. She isn’t a local, but she’s staying at a hotel in Jetty Beach, with friends if I recall. Making a girl's weekend out of her boudoir session. Hopefully her girlfriends have given her some courage so she'll be able to relax and get through her shoot this time. The first time we met, she told me all about her husband and her marriage. They usually do. Sometimes it feels like I’m part therapist. Like a lot of the women I work with, she loves her husband, but life in the bedroom is pretty quiet. She hopes to rekindle the fire with some sexy photos.

I can definitely help with that.

I move a few things around, wanting to create the perfect setting. Joanna will be nervous, so she needs to feel at ease, and the props I choose will either help or hinder. I don’t think she’s going to be a lingerie or corset kind of woman. I encourage women to bring their own clothes, but I also have a pretty wide assortment of pieces in a variety of sizes. I often ask to keep samples when I do shoots for product lines, and the companies are generally willing to let me have them. I pull out a couple of evening gowns and a few silky slips, and hang them on a freestanding metal rack. I'll start with those and see what she gravitates toward. From there, I can help her find some pieces that make her feel good. Because the truth of it is, that's what this is all about. Making her feel good. It doesn’t matter if the color flatters her skin or the cut is just right. If she feels sexy, her photos will radiate sex appeal.

I move the chaise out of the way. I don’t see Joanne on burgundy velvet. Too brazen. She needs soft. Calm. I move a few racks with billowing white curtains for the backdrop and angle the white couch in front of them. Maybe I’ll start with her there. If I can get her comfortable, I bet she'll feel sexy as hell holding up a sheet, turning to look at the camera. I'll tousle her hair, add a little flush to her cheeks. Give her that post-sex glow. I smile thinking about it. She’s going to feel amazing.

I take a quick shower and throw on some clean clothes—a pair of slacks and a light blue button-down shirt. I cuff the sleeves, rolling them up so I have ease of movement, and get to work setting up my lights and equipment.

Someone knocks on the front door and I look at the clock. Joanne is early, but I’m almost ready for her. I give the studio one last glance, hoping she'll like what she sees. She's come all this way for the second time—I really want to make her comfortable and have a fantastic shoot.

I open the door and nervousness shoots through my gut. It’s Nicole.

She looks incredible. Her blond hair is pulled back with a little braid on each side, a few pieces hanging down around her ivory neck. The dark blue of her dress makes her eyes positively glow, and her white sweater ends just above her waistline, showing off the curve of her hips. Her lips glisten and I can’t stop staring as she opens and closes her mouth a few times.

"Hi," I say finally, willing myself not to ogle her chest. The neckline of her dress dips just enough…

"Hey," she says and my eyes snap to hers. "I, um… Crap, this is embarrassing. Can I come in?"

She kind of shunned me the night before, but I find myself stepping aside and ushering her in. I close the door and hesitate there, catching a whiff of her scent when she walks by. It’s lightly floral, soft and sweet. I swallow hard.

"Listen, I came here to apologize," she says. "Last night … I don't even know what to say. I was having a really nice time, but I kind of freaked out. It was a stupid thing to do, and it wasn't your fault at all. I realized after I left what a dumbass I was being, and I feel so bad."

I’m sure what to say. It was so strange. I rub the back of my neck. "It's okay. I guess you caught me off guard. I wasn't sure what happened."

"I know," she says. She sounds so miserable. I want to scoop her up in my arms and make her feel better. "I'm sorry I came unannounced, but I wasn't sure if you'd take my call. I was up half the night feeling terrible for being such a jerk."

My cock strains against my pants, as if I can set it free and it will attack her of its own free will. My fingertips tingle with the desire to touch her. I open my mouth to say she isn’t a jerk, when another knock at the door almost makes me jump.

"I actually have a client this morning," I say.

"Oh, no," she says. Her eyebrows draw down and her shoulders slump. "I'm so sorry. I'll go."

I kind of don’t want her to go, but it isn’t like I can let her stay while I shoot Joanne. And why do I want her to stay? My urge to make her feel better is so strong. I want to reach out and draw her close, kiss away the furrows in that adorable brow, work my way down. I move to open the door, trying to get that image out of my mind.

Joanne's anxious face greets me. She's done her makeup, and her light brown hair hangs loose. She has a handbag over one shoulder and a duffel bag in her hands.

I take a deep breath. "Hey, Joanne. It's good to see you. Come on in."

"Hi, Ryan," she says, her voice a bit shaky. She comes in and sets down her bag, then smiles at Nicole.

"Hi, sorry," Nicole says. "I'm Nicole."

"I'm so relieved," Joanne says. "I love that you have a female assistant this time. I think that will help a lot. I'm so sorry about our last session."

Female assistant? Oh, shit. "No, don't worry about it at all," I say. "I want you to be relaxed. Think of our last appointment as a getting-to-know-you session. I learned more about you, and you had a chance to get comfortable with me."