Page 19 of Picture Perfect

PART FOUR

I STOOD IN the cold December air in a sexy but skimpy red dress. I’d been emotional, but that was no longer stopping the chill in the air from touching my nerves. The hair on my arms stood straight and I was on the verge of shivering, but I had to try one last time to get my date’s attention…to stop him from doing something we’d both regret.

“Shane!”

To hell with shouting. I ran across the parking lot in heels, putting the bulk of my weight on my toes to stop myself from tumbling on the concrete until I caught up with Shane just as he reached his car.

“Shane,” I said, feeling a little short of breath, but holding his arms in my hands, forcing his attention on me. “Don’t do this. It won’t solve anything.”

Fury darkened his face under the street lamp as two snowflakes landed on his hair, melting on impact. “It’ll make us feel better.”

I shook my head, closing my eyes. “No, it won’t. It might make you feel better for a second—until something else happens. This isn’t a permanent solution, Shane. You’ll know that if you think about it.”

“But, Ivy, I can’t just sit around and let this shit happen to you.”

“You can and you will.” I sighed. “I’m just going to move forward with my plan.”

“Your plan of not doing anything?”

I shrugged as I felt my body gear up to begin shivering. “It’s all I’ve got right now. But I’m talking more on the other end. I need to prepare for the time when those photos are found—come up with a good explanation and argument for why they shouldn’t matter. That way I don’t have to worry about it looming over my head.” I could see by his expression that he wasn’t buying my lame answer. “It’s a shitty situation, but I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

He didn’t like my argument, but the reluctant look in his eyes told me he was going to respect my wishes nonetheless. He touched my cheek before saying, “I only want to fight those battles because I care about you. Speaking of which, look at you. You’re freezing.” He pulled off his jacket. “Let’s get you back inside.”

“I don’t want to take your jacket, Shane. Then you’ll be cold.”

Draping it over my shoulders, he said, “We’ll be back inside in a minute.” He pulled me close and we walked back in the restaurant. When we got to the table, we saw the waitress and someone else, perhaps a busboy or sous chef, standing nearby, chatting quietly.

With a nervous look on her face, she said, “Oh. I thought maybe you guys were a dine-and-dash.”

Shane removed the jacket from my shoulders before pulling out my chair. “We just needed a little fresh air.”

“No problem. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

“Wine. We need more wine.”

And, as Shane sat down beside me, my mind raced ahead, planning a steamy evening devised to keep his mind off my problem—because it was my problem, not his…and so I needed to worry about it on my own.

* * *

Shane’s breathing was rhythmic and slow—in and out, in and out—and I only noticed it once the furnace vents shut off, the sound exiting my dark bedroom like an unwelcome guest. And even though his warm body held me close, I was alone with my thoughts just the same.

But because I relied on my intelligence—in fact, my future career was grounded in that asset—I knew I had to use my brains to figure out my dilemma. In the long silence, I determined that I needed to talk to Greg once more. Maybe I could work out a deal of free modeling for a year—underwear on—in exchange for his taking down the pictures. There had to be something that would make him budge—and if that meant I was modeling for free for two days a week for a year or something else equally ridiculous, I’d do it.

I could also hear my mom’s voice in my head, repeating age-old wisdom: A man’s heart is through his stomach. I’d ask Greg out to dinner, my treat, and pitch my proposition. Surely, we could reach an agreement—and I could take my life back.

That matter settled, I drifted into a deep sleep, relishing the feel of Shane’s arms around me, warm and comforting and something I’d needed more than I’d ever known.

* * *

I could get used to this.

Yes, I could get used to Shane and coffee while I whipped up pancakes, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t much of a cook. At his insistence, I was wearing his blue button-down shirt. That was a double score, because I also got to admire his lovely bare torso while I slaved over the stove.

I was staring at the two cakes in the skillet, watching the bubbles form in the batter, remembering how my mom had taught me to make those damned things. Wait for most of the bubbles to pop—and the edges need to be dry. The final test was lifting just the edge of one and taking a peek—and it was browned to perfection. So I slid the spatula underneath before flipping the first one over.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking.”

I smiled, turning the other pancake. “That’s my job.”

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