Page 49 of Ticket to You

Adam’s jaw flexes. “She’s just…overreacting.”

“About anything in particular?”

He steps toward me, so close now he has to tip his head down to look into my eyes.

“She was asking about you.”

My mouth runs dry. “Me?”

“Yeah. You. One of my brothers showed her the photo I posted of you this morning. And she was wondering about us. I told her it’s strictly work, of course.”

My chest tightens. “Of course.”

“My mom’s a worrier. She’s been trying to set me up with some women from back home and thinks photos like that, you know, you in your pj’s and…yeah. She thinks that could ruin her matchmaking efforts.”

What it must feel like to have a mother worry for you.“I’m deeply sorry for any interference I may have had. Have you tried telling her I’m vapid and conceited and definitivelynotyour type?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Adam’s shoulders loosen at my playful tone. “Again and again.”

“Well, did you tell her you’re a semi-famous photojournalist and possibly a soon-to-be Oscar-winning cinematographer and don’t need her help to find someone?”

“My track record with dating begs to differ on that last point.” Adam’s face is still only a foot from mine. I can smell the woodiness of his cologne, transporting me back to yesterday morning and the feeling of his leg against mine.

“Fair. Maybe you should be answering her call after all.”

Adam smiles to himself. “I think I’ve got it handled now.”

26

ADAM

Ophelia tellsme the wedding was at an extravagant church in town, reserved for family only, per the royals’ request. However, a good portion of the groom’s family—including most of the British royals—won’t be attending the reception. This event is where the bride is getting her way, which is why we were invited to the reception, not the wedding.

Once Ophelia and I get past the unwelcome paparazzi, we find the hired wedding photographers, their faces red and breaths quick. They’re like pots about to boil over. Each has at least two cameras strapped to them and darts their eyes around, afraid to miss anything. Ophelia and I divide and conquer, unfazed, as if we’ve been working together for years, not days. We fill our SD cards with ease.

Delicate lace and shimmering pearls adorn the bride’s dress. The trail of it, like a river of silk, cascades elegantly behind her, adding to the regal look. The groom, dressed in a tailored suit that speaks of sophistication and refinement, has his arm slung around his wife’s shoulders lazily. They trade joyous looks and winks here and there. I am lucky enough to get an array of gorgeous candid shots of the couple. Love looks good on them.

In every corner, guests revel in the party’s splendor. The clinking of crystal glasses, the warmth of heartfelt toasts, and the laughter that echoes throughout the hall paint a picture of pure bliss.

As usual, I’m drawn to the people: their smiles, their tears, their little mischievous glances exchanged. I lean my tall frame down to get eye-level with others, hide behind overflowing florals, and use my zoom lens. It’s worth it to catch the close-up, genuine moments as a discreet observer. For the most part, I ignore the opulence of the evening, leaving Ophelia to photograph the impossibly tall tiered cake, champagne towers, marble-and-gold wedding hall, and the sea of lavish gowns.

There’s no shortage of people to study and photograph, but I regularly find myself staring at Ophelia, watching her work. She looks more like a princess than anyone here, with her dark hair pulled back, allowing her striking, perfect features to shine. While I know little about fashion, I do know Ophelia looks breathtaking in her dress.

Whenever Ophelia focuses on her photography, a small crease forms between her eyebrows. When she’s talking to someone, she delivers her best, most contagious smile. And when she’s looking at me, everything else melts away.

As the evening progresses, the party moves outside to the pristine, elegant gardens. Nearly all the guests left are in the bride’s court: young politicians, fellow socialites, and drunk family members dancing energetically to the deejay’s music. The songs probably would have sent the royals’ heads spinning, had they attended this portion of the evening. When the deejay spins a Beastie Boys song, Ophelia catches my eye from across the dance floor, sending me a wide-eyed, disbelieving look. She looks as charming as ever.

The bride dances up to me, hand-in-hand with the groom.

“Adam Abrams, you have been workingtoo hard!You haven’t stopped once in hours.”

“Anything for aprince and princess,” I say, bowing at the couple.

Ophelia, as usual, did her research. She told me the bride is known for being lighthearted, and, sure enough, she joins in on my sarcasm quickly, lifting her chin dramatically before breaking into a fit of laughter. The couple’s smiles curl up at the ends and their eyes droop a bit, likely the effects of both the alcohol and the long, stressful day.

“I’m not a princess yet. All titles go through the king, and after he sees pictures of me sloshed tonight, that might never happen.” She giggles, grabbing her husband’s butt for good measure. “I couldn’t help but notice an incredibly beautiful woman over there eyeing you all night.”

I don’t need to look to see who she’s referring to. “Incredibly beautiful” doesn’t do Ophelia justice, but it’s a start. “I’m just her assistant photographer for the article. Speaking of the article, I know you don’t want to do a sit-down interview, but can I get a quote from either of you?”

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