Page 3 of Body Check

Click.

Familiar brown eyes land on my face, startling in their intensity.

Click.

Long ago, he’d look at me just like he is now and whisper in that rough, endearing Texas drawl of his, “Always you.”

The sentiment used to send my heart soaring.

Now he only averts his gaze, stubbled cheeks hollowing with a heavy breath, and turns back to the bride and groom.

Click.

The final shutter of the camera mimics the steady rhythm of my heart.

One inappropriate photo down.

Five too many pictures of my ex-husband already catalogued.

Father Christopher clears his throat. “Perhaps we can hold off on the impregnating until after we exchange vows?”

I snort.

And then the four-year-old ring bearer seals Andre Beaumont’s sinner status for good. Thrusting one little arm up in the air as Andre releases Zoe and steps back, the kid shouts, “Mommy! Mommy, Mr. Beaumont has a sword in his pants!Iwant one that big!”

I find Andre’s shocked expression with my lens.

Click.

I may not have the husband or the white picket fence or the two-point-five kids, but goddamn it, I love my job.

Some days, it feels like enough.

2

Holly

Ihate my job.

Beneath my office desk, my bare toes curl into the area rug I picked out five years ago when Carter Photography became something more concrete than an idea percolating in my head. I’ve had staff come and go, but this rug has been a constant through it all.

Why are you thinking about the damn rug?

Ahem. Probably because I don’t want to contemplate the proposition Steven Fairfax has laid out for me. A proposal that . . . oh God, it’d behell. Like, ‘jump feet first into a vat of molten lava and then roll around in the sand’ sort of hell.

Black eyes blink back at me from across my desk. “Do you want me to go over all of that again, Ms. Carter?”

Snagging a pen off the top of my planner, I tap the butt against the desk. “I’m going to shoot it straight with you, Steven—do you mind if I call you Steven?”

The producer from ESPN’s top competitor, Sports 24/7, continues his one-sided staring contest. More rapid blinking ensues, and I’m forced to consider being a good Samaritan and offer my eye drops. Or maybe I threw him for a loop by not leaping for joy ten minutes ago when he broke out the projector and analytical graphs to brag about his TV network’s annual audience numbers compared to ESPN’s. Honestly, it was all very reminiscent of a whose-dick-is-bigger competition.

According to Steven Fairfax’s presentation, Sports 24/7 would be the uncomfortably large variety only found in pornos.

Either way, not even a symbolic ten-inch penis can change my mind.

See: the vat of molten lava and sand bit.

He treats me to a creepy tongue swipe, along with another round of robust blinking. “Will you take the offer?”

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