Page 23 of Take It Till You Make It
I look back at Crispin and roll my eyes. “Well, he hasn’t made a mistake or misstep yet.”
She smiles fondly in Crispin’s direction, like he’s her spunky little brother. “No, he’s the consummate pro, that’s for sure.” With a wistful sigh, she adds, “Can you imagine growing up in this industry? I’m sure nothing can take him by surprise anymore. He’s probably seen it all by now.”
I watch him shift from foot to foot, hands in pockets, looking like he should be the prince at a ball. “Maybe that’s why he’s so condescending. He expects people to want to cater to him because of who he is. He simply doesn’t know any different.”
Somehow, Sally manages to look beautiful even with a furrowed brow. “I don’t see him that way.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. How can she not hear the disdain in his tone or catch any of the one million superior smirks he’s thrown my direction? I shrug and we continue watching him until the photographer says it’s Sally’s turn.
My feet are starting to hurt, so I shift from one foot to another and consider taking my shoes off until…what, I’m not sure. I don’t know why I’m still here if I’ve already had my photo session.
Crispin stands next to me, and I pretend like his presence doesn’t make me as uncomfortable as my shoes.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
His tone is different from what I’m used to, so I look around to see who he’s talking to. But I’m the only one around. “Um, no?”
“You’re hugging yourself like you are. I was just going to offer my jacket if you were.”
What is even happening right now? My mouth flops a couple of times while I try to figure out his angle. Finally, I reply with the stupidest thing possible. “It would be way too big for me.”
Seriously, without heels, I think I’m eye-level with his pecs.
“We could send an assistant to get a sweater or something from wardrobe.”
Again, my mouth is hanging open while my mind whirs. Why is he being so nice to me? “I’m fine, really. It’s my feet. These shoes are killing me. I’m not one for heels. Guess I’m just giving myself a comforting hug.”
Crispin looks around and catches the attention of one of the assistants. “Can we get a chair in here, please?”
I’m about to stammer that it isn’t necessary, but the gal nods at him like he just gave her a critical task to accomplish and races out of the studio. In no time, she’s speed walking toward us with a folded director’s chair in hand.
“Here you are, sir.”
Crispin steps aside when the gal tries to set it behind him. “It’s for Arabelle.”
My attention floats to him instead of the gal busily unfolding the chair behind me. The way he said my name made it sound exotic and unique. Usually, people just stumble over it because they really want to add an “a” at the end. But it rolled off his tongue with beautiful vowel sounds and a definitive end. How strange that this boy who has treated me like I’m an annoying extra has suddenly made me feel so seen.
“Aren’t you going to sit?” he asks.
“Oh.” I look at the chair, unsure how to get myself into it gracefully. It’s tall, so I’ll have to boost myself up to it, plus there is only a slim footrest that I’m sure my shoe will slip on as I boost. But my feet hurt enough for me to take the chance. I reach behind me and grab the arms of the chair, place a foot as surely on the thin rest as possible, and jump. The chair rocks forward, but Crispin quickly grabs the back to keep it from tipping completely. When I’m seated securely, I give him an embarrassed smile. “Thanks.”
He resumes his casual hands-in-pockets stance next to my chair. Perched higher on the chair than when I’m standing, it’s actually more comfortable talking to him.
“Thanks for your help during my session too. Where did you learn that trick?”
An arched brow disappears behind his floppy bangs. I study his handsome face, unable to decide if I like this messy look better than the clean-cut look they’ve given his character in the movie.
“The blowing in the face thing?” he asks. I nod, and he chuckles. “I went through an awkward stage. From about the age of fourteen to maybe seventeen, my body felt alien to me. I was always stiff and gangly. I couldn’t find my groove. It was like the more I thought about how I was supposed to move, the worse it got.”
“Oh, my gosh, yes! That’s exactly what was happening.”
He smiles. “I recognized it. There was a photographer’s assistant once who blew in my face like that. I was shocked at how well it worked. Well, at first, I was shocked that she did it. Then, I was shocked when my body was lax and malleable again.”
When he chuckles at the memory, it’s the most real I’ve ever seen him, and it makes something tumble inside me. I grip the arm of the chair until my knuckles turn white, silently scolding myself not to get drawn into his orbit. The last thing I need is to nurse a crush during the rest of shooting.
“It was shocking, that’s for sure,” I agree.
“But it totally worked.” His gaze is mischievous. “Your shoot after that was hot.”
