Page 66 of The Temporary Fiancée
He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging. For a few seconds, I’m silent, floundering for a response.
I agreed to this. I signed off on it, in pen, on a legally-binding document. I know that it’s a necessary part of our plan, and I don’t want to jeopardize it just because I’m a little uncomfortable. I can deal.
So I shake my head again. “Really, it’s fine. I’m good.”
Reed’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t fully believe me. When the photography techs start to file back into the room, he lifts his voice to be heard by them all. “Hey, everyone, we’re going to change things up a little, okay?”
“What are you doing?” I whisper to him, but he doesn’t answer me.
Instead, he takes my hand and approaches the photographer, who is messing with the settings on his camera.
“Listen, we’ve been talking about the whole setup here,” Reed says. “It’s really impressive, and all, but it doesn’t really fit with the aesthetic we’re trying to go for.”
The photographer gives him a sour, unimpressed look. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. We were thinking we might want to make this a smaller production.”
“What do you mean by that?” The photographer folds his arms, scowling. It crosses my mind that this is a bad idea. From the moment we arrived, I’ve thought that this guy was a bit of a pretentious prick—the kind you don’t want to irritate.
But Reed’s voice is casual as he replies, “Trust me. This will suit us better.”
The photographer doesn’t argue. Reed turns to the rest of the room, clapping his hands together to draw everyone’s attention.
“Okay!” he calls out. A shadow passes over the photographer’s face, like he’s thinking horrible things about Reed that he can’t say aloud. “Thank you all so much for your hard work, but we’re going to keep things simple from here on. Everyone who’s not taking the pictures—you can leave.”
There’s a good amount of confused muttering at that, but eventually, everyone except for the photographer filters out of the door. When the three of us are alone in the studio, he turns to us with a sneer and a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not sure how you expect me to get good pictures without my staff,” he says. “I need to adjust the lighting in here.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard,” Reed replies. “Seeing as we’re not staying in the studio.”
“We’re not?” I blurt out, surprised.
He turns to me, grinning. “I’m feeling something more casual. How do you feel about natural lighting?”
“You must be out of your mind,” the photographer mutters.
Ignoring him, Reed takes me back into the dressing room, searching through the racks of clothing for something a little more comfortable for me. He finds several options for me to choose from, but none of them are nearly as beautiful—or obviously expensive—as the gown I’m currently wearing.
“Reed,” I whisper to him, pinching the fabric of one of the dresses, “these aren’t formal enough for this. What if people think I’m?—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures me. “You look so unhappy in that dress. Come on. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I just want you to be comfortable in your own skin.”
I take a deep breath, then change out my expensive dress for one of Reed’s options, a silk, off-the-shoulder number the color of coffee beans. It’s simple, nowhere near as elaborate or stunning as the one I was originally wearing, but I can’t deny that it’s more comfortable. The fabric breathes. I feel like I can move in it.
When I emerge from behind the curtain in the new dress, Reed beams widely and gives an appreciative whistle. “Therewe go,” he says. “That’s more like it.”
I glance in the mirror. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely. Now why don’t you re-do that makeup, huh?”
“What do you mean?” I shake my head. “I’m never going to be able to make it look this good. Those people were professionals. And you sent them all out of the room.”
“I want you to look like yourself,” he says. “Just do it how you would do it if we were going out to dinner. You looked so beautiful at Cole and Riley’s party—do whatever you did that night.”
I bite my lip, but follow his instructions, heading over to the makeup table and using a cotton swab to remove the glam job the makeup artist gave me. Then I reapply—basic foundation, mascara, an understated eyeliner, and a brown eyeshadow that matches the dress.
When I’m done, my look is much more natural, but I still can’t help worrying that it’s notenough.These pictures are going to be public, and I’m positive the media is going to latch onto my every flaw—flaws that are almost certainly much more noticeable now that I’ve shed the protective layer of expensive styling.
