Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1) (6 page)

"Well, this is it," he says, ushering me in.

Light streams in through tall windows with detailed wood trim. Their pointed tops make them almost look medieval, at least to my eyes. Hardwood floors gleam and the room is filled with a haphazard arrangement of furniture. A burgundy velvet chaise sits next to a lush leather armchair. A tall, freestanding mirror with a dark wood frame stands near a cream-colored couch accented with blue throw pillows. There are a few side tables that look like refinished antiques, and a number of decorative pots and urns, but none of it seems to be placed in any sort of order. Along the walls, large sheets of beige canvas cover what appears to be more furniture. Photographer's lights and black umbrellas with reflective white centers, all mounted on stands, crowd around the jumbled display.

"Sorry," Ryan says. "I was moving things around after my last shoot, so the studio is a mess."

"That's okay," I say. "It's beautiful."

He looks around, a proud smile on his face. "Thanks. It was a disaster when I bought it. You wouldn't have recognized it. There were holes in the walls, and the floor looked terrible. It's taken a lot of work, but it's definitely come together."

I wander over to one of the windows. It reveals a breathtaking view of the beach. The church sits on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Rolling dunes peppered with tall grasses give way to the gray sand of the beach, stretching in both directions. Waves crash against the sand, foamy white water rolling back and forth in a steady rhythm.

"This is amazing," I say.

Ryan moves in behind me, his closeness making my back tingle. "Yeah, the view is incredible. It's almost as good as the lighting in here."

I stand, rooted to the spot, suddenly afraid to turn around. Ryan is so close I can smell him. His scent is fresh and clean, like a breeze blowing through the woods on a spring day. Jason took to wearing cologne. My stomach turns a little as I think about it. He was probably trying to mask the smell of the other woman. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with Ryan's scent.

My heart thunders in my chest. I’m sure he can hear it. I turn, suddenly desperate for something to break the tension.

Boobs catch my eye.

Well, doesn't that just break the spell?

The walls on either side of the front door are lined with framed photographs. The first one I notice has a woman in a vintage-style bikini, huge boobs barely contained by navy and white polka-dots. Her hair and makeup are done pinup style, like someone from the forties. I walk across the room to get a closer look. She’s leaning against the hood of an old car, her back arched, legs a mile long ending in hot red stilettos.

"Wow," I say. "Is this yours?"

"It is," Ryan says.

I glance at the other photographs. They’re all scantily clad women in various provocative poses. Another looks kind of vintage like the first one, the girl in a sexy version of a sailor outfit, complete with a little cap on her head. A more modern-looking woman looks backward over her shoulder, the lines of her waist extending to lush hips, her body only covered by a thin wisp of fabric she holds up with one hand. The light is soft against her olive skin, and her hair hangs down over her shoulder in gentle waves. A third is of a woman lying on the burgundy velvet chaise I noticed in the studio. Somehow she makes the long sequined gown she’s wearing look more erotic than the bikinis and lingerie on the women in the other photos. Her arm drapes carelessly over her forehead and her other hand teases near her groin. Voluminous auburn hair spreads out over the back of the chaise, and her red lips stand out against pale skin.

"These are gorgeous," I say, and I mean it. I was taken aback at first, but there’s nothing trashy about these photos. They’re sexual, sure, but they don’t strike me as photos designed only for men to jack off to. The women look beautiful, sensual rather than raunchy.

"You like them?" Ryan asks. He stands with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted just a bit to the right. His eyes meet mine. "I was a little worried."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Not everyone understands what I do."

"Is this, um…" I pause, not quite sure how to phrase my question. "Is this the type of photography you do?"

"Mostly, yeah," he says. "I've done lingerie lines, and a lot of portfolio shots for models. I also do private boudoir sessions."

"Boudoir? Like, sexy photos women give their husbands?" I ask.

"Exactly," he says. "Do you … do you want to see some?"

"Sure."

He brings out a thick leather-bound book and nods toward the couch. I sit down next to him and he opens the book in his lap. The first photo is a woman splayed out on a bed, wearing nothing but a white sheet. Her skin looks flawless, but she isn’t covered in tons of makeup. Thick, blond hair flows out behind her, and the whole thing looks … it looks gorgeous. Like the photos on his wall, it’s highly charged with sexuality, but not the least bit trashy.

He slowly flips through more pages. Some women wear lingerie, others appear to be nude, strategically covered by a sheet. They are of varying ages. One woman is silver-haired, with wrinkles and folds in her skin, but somehow he made her look just as sensual as the younger women.

"This isn't what I was thinking when you said boudoir photos," I say, lingering over a photograph of a woman in a man's shirt and tie. "I would never have guessed they could be so classy. You've even done some in black and white. These are incredible."

"You were picturing red and black corsets with lots of lace and bad makeup?" he asks.

"Yeah, kinda."

He turns the page again, this time to a woman in a black teddy. It could be in a catalog. "I get paid a lot more to shoot models, but these are my favorite shoots by far. I love helping women bring out their inner goddess."

Oh, holy shit. Is he serious right now?

"Wow, you definitely deliver," I say, trying to keep my voice from sounding breathy. "How did you get into doing this? Did you just wake up one day and think, hey, I'd like to take photos of half-naked women and make them look like goddesses?"

Ryan chuckles. "Not quite. I went to art school and spent a lot of time taking pictures of trees and farmland and stuff. There's a lot of beauty in nature, but I've always been drawn to people. Well, women in particular. After graduating I did a stint taking photos for a … certain kind of website."

"Porn?" I ask.

"Yeah, it was definitely porn. Really raunchy stuff, but it paid the bills."

I’m not quite sure what to make of that. What must his family think? If he even told them. "Wow. That must have been … interesting."

"You'd think it would be the perfect gig for a twenty-two-year-old guy, but honestly, it was awful," he says. "There was no emotion in any of it. Just … hell, I don't even want to tell you. Let's just say I saw things that year that I will never be able to unsee."

"So you weren't bringing home your subjects and acting out the photos?" I say, nudging him with my elbow.

"No," he says with a laugh, and stands up. He puts the book back on a shelf. "No, I got out of that job as soon as I could. Sometimes I feel like all the showers in the world won't be enough to wash off the ick."

"How did you go from porn to, well, sexy but not porn?" I ask.

One side of his mouth turns up in a grin. "Luck, mostly. I took a job as a janitor at this old mansion just to keep a roof over my head. It used to be someone's home, but now it's rented out for weddings and stuff. One day this well-known photographer came in to scout out the space for a shoot. I was just leaving from working all night, but I recognized him and worked up the nerve to introduce myself. I ended up showing him around the grounds—pointed out all the best places to shoot, and where the sun would be at different times of day and so forth. I guess he was impressed because he started hiring me to help with some of his clients. He taught me a lot. I found I had a good eye for women's bodies—for capturing their sensuality. Eventually clients started asking for me specifically. I contracted out to some ad agencies and designers, and built up a client list.”

"And now you're here," I say. "This is a far cry from L.A."

"Thank goodness for that," he says. "Fortunately, a lot of my clients are willing to come here for me to shoot them. That's why I bought the church. The unique architecture is a selling point. My clients love it. Plus, I can travel when I need to."

I want to ask him why he moved back to the beach. It seems like he had a promising career. What would have brought him back here?

"So, the lights are over here," Ryan says, before I can ask any more questions.

I glance one more time at Ryan's photos, imagining him talking the women through their photo shoots. How did he get them to look so … stirring? The woman on the chaise looks like she might be getting ready to have an orgasm. She doesn’t have an exaggerated
oh-baby-do-it-now
face—she looks relaxed, her eyelids fluttering closed, her lips parted, like she’s experiencing sublime bliss. Did Ryan do that? Or is she simply an experienced model who knows how to put on the right expression?

I've never been a switch hitter, but the woman's expression and the languid drape of her arms makes my heart beat faster. I tear my gaze away, not wanting to make my face turn red. It’s probably too late for that. Thankfully Ryan's studio is chilly, or it would be worse. I follow him through a doorway on the other side of the room, resisting the urge to fan myself as I walk.

A rectangular room, clearly his living space, opens up. The ceiling is high, but flat instead of pitched. Another window has an equally spectacular view of the beach. There’s a little kitchen area along one side, and he has a couch and armchair facing a TV mounted to the wall. But the bulk of the room is dominated by a huge king sized bed. In true guy fashion, it’s plain, with just a green comforter and a couple of pillows, all slightly askew.

I arch an eyebrow as I look at the bed. "What family do you share that with?"

His eyes dart to the bed and he gives me that lopsided smile again. For half a second, I imagine lying in the center of that huge bed, Ryan crawling on top of me.

"I like my space when I sleep," he says.

I clear my throat, suddenly wishing I hadn't called attention to the bed.

Ryan grabs what looks like a black suitcase. "These are the lights. They're similar to the ones out in the studio, but they're meant to be portable."

"Great, that will be perfect."

He hesitates, his eyes on my face. A tingle runs down my spine.

Suddenly even more conscious of the bed, I duck through the doorway back into the studio. My brain tells me to head for the front door, but I move to one of the windows instead. What am I doing, lingering here?

I hear him set down the black case, and he moves to stand behind me.

"Beautiful." His voice is quiet—soft and low.

"It is," I say. "I can see why you wanted this place."

"Mm hmm." He murmurs something I can’t quite make out.

I turn to ask him what he said, but he’s standing so close, the words flee before I can speak. His gaze is intense, and the line between his eyes furrow.

My heart flutters and my stomach does a little somersault. I tilt my chin up and part my lips. He leans in, almost imperceptibly, the intensity never leaving his expression. I draw in a quick breath, waiting, my body coming alive. I’m stuck, frozen, the rest of the world ceasing to exist. There’s nothing but his eyes on my face, piercing and eager.

The front door flies open. "Hey, jackass, you home?"

Ryan steps back and I feel blood rush to my face.

"Don't you knock?" Ryan asks.

Ryan's older brother Cody walks in, shutting the door behind him. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you had company."

"The other car in the driveway wasn't a clue?" Ryan asks.

I blink hard and take a deep breath, hoping I don’t look as stunned as I feel. What just happened?

"Cody, you remember Nicole Prescott?" Ryan says, gesturing to me.

"Yeah, sure," Cody says, walking over to shake my hand. The family resemblance is obvious. He has the same dark hair and green eyes, although his is cut shorter. He wears a light green button-down shirt, striped tie, and a pair of dark slacks. "You're from Jetty Beach, right? In Ryan's class? That's crazy, I can't remember the last time I saw you."

I shake Cody's hand. He takes it in a firm grip. "Yeah, I haven't been back in a while."

"Are you back for good?" Cody asks.

"No," I say. Did Ryan flinch when I said that? "I'm just here temporarily, while I take care of some things."

"Nice. Hey, sorry to interrupt. Ryan, you should answer mom's text."

"Mom texted?" Ryan asks, a look of amusement on his face.

"She most certainly did," Cody says. "Of course, you didn't answer, and now she wants to know why."

"Did you come all the way up here to find out why I didn't answer a text from someone who has literally never texted me before in her entire life?"

Cody shrugs. "That's not the only reason. Mom wants us all over for dinner."

"We have dinner there every week," Ryan says. "Why does this one need a special invite?"

"Mom was really adamant about it," Cody says. "Have you heard from Hunter recently?"

I vaguely remember Hunter. He wasn't Ryan and Cody's brother, but it seems like he was always with the Jacobsens. Maybe he even lived with them.

"No, I never hear from him," Ryan says. "Why? Do you think this is about him?"

"Maybe," Cody says. "Mom was acting weird, made me wonder. You know how she is when she's trying to hide something from us. I thought maybe you heard something."

"No, but you can tell Mom I'll be at dinner," Ryan says. "I'll text her. And you could have just called me."

Cody leans against a little table next to the door. "I know, but I was out and about."

Confusion swirls in my mind. Had Ryan been about to kiss me? Did I want him to? I mean, hell yes, I wanted him to. There’s a part of me that wants to launch myself at him, put my hands all over that amazing body. Let him put his hands all over mine. But what does that make me? I just got out of the only relationship I've ever been in. Jumping into bed with a guy I barely know is definitely a terrible idea.