Page 13 of One Weekend in Quebec City

I’mstarting to second guess everything when all I really should want is for us to conduct a regular, professional interview so I can return home and write a glowing review of the shoot today and nothing else.

“So, what do you think?”Spencer asks in a low voice, his tone doing things I can’t beginto decipher.

I stare straight ahead to remain professional while I give a polite answer when Ireallywant to grab him by the back of the neck and yank his face to mine so I can taste the coffee he just drank, maybe nip at his lips.

“Oh, I think I’m out of my league.”

ChapterSix

Spencer

Iwant to ask what she means by that, but the photographer chooses that moment to interrupt with a million questions.

The next couple of hours fly by as we work. Occasionally, I glance around the room, searching for Shelby. I find her talking to the crew, the models, and the team or sitting against the wall, scribbling in her notebook.Every timeI watch her, she catches me and gives me a shy smile.

And I want to watch her some more.

Finally, we have everything we need and call it quits for the day. After a few final words with my team, I let them go for the rest of the afternoon and stroll over to where Shelby is waiting for me.

“Well, that was intense,” she says as she follows me back to the conference room from the ballroom. She’s clutching her now-empty coffee mug like a lifeline. Her notepad is tucked under her arm, probably filled with scribbled observations and half-formed questions.

She’s one of the prettiest women I’ve seen in a long time. And genuine. I’ve known her for less than twenty-four hours and want to know everything about her. What’s her favorite movie? Her fondest memory? Does she have siblings? What are her parents like? Where did she grow up?

The room feels enormous and silent, with just the two of usin it. She drops into one of the chairs, and I drop my things on the polished table andturn tolean against the edge with my arms crossed, trying for a sexy half-smile, hoping she’ll relax and let me pepper her with my questions in between hers.

She’s got gorgeous eyes. They’re big and expressive. I can see every feeling and thought in there. This woman does not have a poker face.

“Intense is one word for it,” I agree. “Did you find it enlightening, exciting?”

“Definitely. It’s different than what I expected.”She gestures vaguely with her empty mug. “I mean, you weren’t, you know... ordering people around, making outrageous demands, acting like, well, an asshat boss.”

I laugh. “Disappointed?”

“Surprised,”she admits. “Pleasantly surprised.”And, okay, maybe a little disappointed. A small part of me—the part that craves a good story—was ready for some drama, some headline-worthy behavior. But therealSpencer Hollis, at least the one I saw today, is far more complex. And far more compelling.”

“I should hope so. There is that saying—don’t judge a book by its cover. People have been judging me for some time now, without taking the time to get to know me. They’ve made false assumptions.”

“That’s why you want to do this story.”Her sober tone deserves a similar response.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll promise to start with a clean slate.”

“Thank you. Why don’t we find somewhere a little more comfortable to continue our conversation?”

“I’d like that.”

We end up in a small, secluded alcove in the hotel lounge where two plush armchairs face each other with a small, round marble table between them. Sunlight streams through a nearby window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The soft murmur of conversation from the other guests blends together, creating a surprisingly intimate atmosphere. I wait for her to take her seat before sinking into mine.

“So,”I begin, wanting to get this over with. I lean forward, rest my forearms on my thighs, and zero in on her mesmerizing eyes. “Ask away, Ms. Bailey. What do you want to know?”

“This is officially the start of the interview. So, no topic restrictions at all, Mr. Hollis?”

“No topic is off limits, and please keep calling me Spencer.”I like it when she says my name in her cute Canadian accent.

“Okay, Spencer,”she repeats, her cheeks pink.

The slight emphasis, the way her gaze intensifies as she says my name, sends a heated shiver down my spine. And it’s a good thing I’m sitting in this position.

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