Page 102 of The Girlfriend Zone
He laughs softly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. I’ve said plenty of nice things.”
“True. You have. But that’s up there.”
“Wow. I need to raise the bar for myself then,” I say, petting Bippity to calm her—and, if I’m honest, myself.
“No, don’t change a thing,” he says. “I’m also good with languages. It comes easily.”
“I’m not jealous at all,” I say.
“You know another language,” he points out.
I smile. “True. I do.” Then I glance at the time, sighing. “I should go. I have a boudoir shoot.”
“Too bad,” he says, sighing with some reluctance. “I was going to the Museum of Illusions with the guys, and I stepped down an alley behind an old church to talk to you instead.”
“Me over illusions with the guys. Quite the compliment,” I say, but inside I’m giddy.
“I’d always choose you,” he says, and the air escapes my lungs. I’m quiet for a beat, the stillness humming in the air.
It’s like his words have settled into the distance between us, bridging the miles. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
Because what I really want to say would make this even more complicated.
I want to say—choose me.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to say it,” he replies, then adds, in a tone full of longing, “thanks for calling. You can call anytime.”
I know he means it. I hang up, and before I go, I snap a photo of Bippity, lounging with smug indifference in her heated dog bed now, alongside the others in a row of little dog hot tubs, and send it to him with a caption:Your fur sister has zero remorse.
Miles: What can I say? She’s got my stubborn streak. But I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I think back to the deal we made, to the reset I promised myself. But here I am, breaking my own rules. And the truth is, I regret nothing too.
Leighton: Counting down the days.
Even though I shouldn’t.
“You looked beautiful,” I tell Sophie once more as she lingers in the doorway of the studio. She booked the session as an engagement gift for her fiancé.He got me a ring; I’m giving him silk and skin,she’d said earlier, spinning around in red and black lingerie—his favorites.
“Is it weird that I felt beautiful?” she asks, her hand resting lightly on the red door.
I shake my head, smiling. “Not weird at all. That’s fantastic. I’ll be in touch soon to show you the whole set.”
“Can’t wait,” she says, and with a bounce in her step that wasn’t there when she arrived, she disappears down the staircase.
That fills my cup. I started doing boudoir photography in the first place to empower women—capturing themoment when a client starts to see herself differently, beautifully. I don’t want that moment to slip through my fingers. To fade into a blur. I want women to be able to hold on to it always. To remember it. And, when I look back at photos I’ve taken, I can feel their joy. Right now, I carry her joy with me as I straighten up the studio.
The door snicks open, and the click of heels interrupts the quiet as I’m re-hanging a robe. I glance up to see Mai Akamai, a statuesque Japanese woman, striding in with a whirl of jet-black hair and an oversized recycled-plastic purse that she tosses onto the ruby chair.
“Did you hear?” she asks, skipping pleasantries entirely.
I brace myself. Good news rarely starts that way. “Hear what?”
She gestures broadly at the lush studio we’ve curated so carefully, with its sapphire chaise longue and ruby-red chair. “The landlord is raising the rent.”
The silk robe freezes midair in my hand. “Seriously?”
