Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,13
often sprinkling them with anecdotes from his own experiences. Some are less appropriate than others—one beach is, apparently, especially good for lovemaking. Rhys snorts at that.
When we drive into Gustavia, he starts extolling the town’s virtues.
“Gustavia is unique in the world, because it has no… what’s the word… restauration rapide.”
“Fast food,” Rhys comments.
“Yes, exactly! There is none of that here. But we have a lot of fine dining. Many Michelin chefs.” Étienne turns onto a minuscule street in Gustavia, barreling down toward the sailboats in the harbor. I hold on to the door handle and look at Rhys.
“You speak French?”
He shrugs.
Right. What an answer.
“I will leave you here,” Étienne says, parking next to the central harbor in Gustavia. He hands us a business card. “You call me when you’re done and I will come.”
“The hotel is not that far, is it?”
“No. But the lady is in… talons hauts.”
Rhys frowns, glancing down at my feet. “High heels. Yes, that she is.”
I look down at the shoes in question. They’re fairly low heels, and they’re wedges, too. I want to kiss the agency stylist who thought of that little detail.
“Thank you, Étienne. We’ll see you later.”
“Good luck!”
Rhys doesn’t look at me when we’re the only two left in the calm harbor. Gustavia’s colorful houses and small streets beckon just yards away, and a palm tree next to us waves in the breeze.
“I’m ready,” I say, shaking out my hair. The hair stylist this morning had styled it straight, and it hangs in a golden waterfall down my back.
Rhys turns his camera over in his hands, looking over the settings. “Good for you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.” There’s liquid sugar dripping from my voice. “All I’ve ever wanted in life is your approval.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a nuisance.”
“More compliments! What have I done to deserve this?”
He starts to walk away, but I keep up easily, even in my talons hauts. “The call sheet says we’re to shoot me walking on these streets. Interacting with local culture. Eating lunch.”
“I’ve read the call sheet too.”
“Awesome, you’re literate. See, I can give out compliments too. But you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
“Am I?” If my voice had been sugary-sweet, Rhys’s is desert-dry. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, you see, blue is ocean.”
“How are you so energetic? Did you eat an all-sugar breakfast?”
“No. I got up early and exercised.”
He stops by the edge of the dock, back to me, and takes a few pictures of the harbor. “This is good. I want you to stand here.”
I walk past him to the very edge of the dock. “For you to push me in?”
“Don’t tempt me.” But he backs away, camera raised. I take a deep breath. Showtime.
Posing isn’t always difficult, but sometimes it is. When there aren’t clear elements to work with. When I’m unsure of the direction the shoot is going. When I know the photographer isn’t pleased.
“This isn’t working,” he says, putting down the camera a few minutes later. “Try sitting.”
“On the edge?”
“Yes.”
I pause, half-crouched. “You’re definitely planning on pushing me in.”
He sighs. “You flatter yourself.”
I sink down on the edge of the dock and swing my legs over the edge, the turquoise water glittering below. Being pushed in wouldn’t even be that bad. The dress would be ruined, but as long as I could blame it on Rhys it would be cool.
Leaning back on my hands, I shake my hair over my shoulders and look at the horizon. “Are you taking pictures?”
A testy voice behind me. “Yes.”
And then a hand on my shoulder and a sudden exertion of force. I grip onto the edge of the dock and push back, and the pressure vanishes immediately. Behind me, Rhys laughs.
“You asshole!”
“I couldn’t resist. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“I don’t believe you.” Standing up, I brush off the dress. It falls like a cloud of red silk around me.
“Come on,” Rhys tells me, looking out over the distance. A dark curl has fallen over his forehead. It’s very, very easy to see how the roles could be reversed. Give me your camera and I’ll photograph you. “The all-mighty call sheet has dictated that I’m to shoot you walking in the streets.”
He strides down the dock, shoulders wide, camera gripped in one hand, like a soldier at war. Perhaps that’s what he’d rather be shooting—nature or people or wartime atrocities. Not me.
We spend the rest of the afternoon walking around Gustavia. I do all kinds of mundane things, posing all the