CHAPTER SIXTEEN

About thirty minutes later, she tilted her head to the side while gazing into the large mirror in her room.

“Interesting,” she muttered.

She’d never been a beach/poolside fan, even though she’d attended a couple of such occasions in the past (thanks to Gabriele, of course). Looking at the black-and-white Fendi swimwear she wore, Lola wondered why she never fancied such an outfit. It was basically a second, fashionable skin, considering how tight it felt. Regardless, its elasticity seemed to be limitless, making the swimwear rather comfortable while displaying every curve on her body. She styled her hair simply, straightening it out and dropping it over one shoulder. She wore a sun hat and threw on a lengthy mesh jacket, both carrying the same color and brand as the swimwear. Overall, the outfit looked presentable to Lola, making her nod her head subtly.

“Got to hand it to Santiago,” she remarked as she twisted to inspect her rear. “He really knows his stuff. Probably comes from years of buying clothes for all his women.”

Of course, she was not going to mention that to him. Hopefully.

After one last round of checkups, she strutted out of the room, her jacket blowing behind her like a cape. Walking softly with padded black platforms, she wandered through the back door and into the pool area. She found Pierre pacing back and forth on the tangerine porcelain floor, with a digital camera hanging from his neck from a long strap and a plastic coffee cup in his hand. Santiago, on the other hand, sat a few yards to the left, donning a white beach shirt and shorts with identical blue palm tree patterns. He seemed wasted away on his phone and neither man noticed Lola’s entrance.

That’s until Santiago’s nose twitched. Twice.

He looked up immediately, blinking at her repeatedly. Pierre caught his stare and followed his line of sight, stopping dead in his tracks and nearly spilling his coffee. Both men said nothing for thirty long seconds, making Lola’s shoulders droop.

“Is it that bad?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Her inquiry suddenly spurred the men to action. Pierre walked over to a chair and began to load the camera with film, and Santiago got to his feet and placed his hands behind his back, maintaining his gaze.

“Of course not,” he finally responded with a small smile. “I picked the outfit, remember? So it can never go wrong.”

Lola started to retort, but the look in Santiago’s eyes prompted her to stop. He’d gazed at her in many ways before—especially when they were both devoid of clothes and into the thick of it—but there was something… different this time. Beyond lust and desire for bodily contact. Lola couldn’t really place it, but she knew it was a softer look. One that mostly showed admiration. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like it.

“Okay, mademoiselle et monsieur,” Pierre announced. “We’re ready to begin.”

Lola turned to the photographer, then she quickly scanned around her with a narrowed brow. “Huh. I expected more equipment. And a larger camera.”

Pierre chuckled, tapping his small camera. “In many cases, size isn’t always a deciding factor, mademoiselle. You’d be surprised at what this bad boy can do. As for the lack of equipment, Monsieur Morales suggested that we utilize the strength of the sunlight, which would be more effective than any artificial lighting.”

“Okay…” Lola said, still skeptical. “And how do we do that?”

Santiago stepped in, pointing across the pool. “The large mirror mounted on the stand over there will be our spotlight. It’ll perfectly redirect the incoming sunlight, providing the required glow we need. The house in the background already provides enough aesthetic, and with Pierre’s skills, we should look golden in the photos.”

Lola arched an eyebrow. “When did you become an expert in photography?”

“I’m Santiago Morales, amor. I’m an expert in whatever I put my mind to,” he said with a wink as he took her hand and led her to the designated “stage”.

“We’re ready, Pierre. Fire away.”

Forty minutes later, the photographer stifled a frustrated groan when the sound of thunder echoed from a distance.

“Is everything okay, Pierre?” Santiago asked, raking his fingers through his hair.

He nodded, but Lola could tell he was just trying to be professional and not lash out. She honestly couldn’t blame him; the sun had disappeared, dark clouds had formed a congregation above, ready to send down the heaviest downpour, and the sudden strong wind kept blowing my hair and jacket around. The perfect photo shoot was going sour.

“The weather isn’t making things any easier for us,” Santiago continued with a glance upwards. “Do you think what we have is good enough?”

“Er…” Another sound of uncertainty. Lola took off her shades and placed her hands on her hips.

“Alright, Pierre,” she started in French. “What’s going on? And don’t blame just the weather.”

The photographer’s eyes darted from Lola to Santiago, as if he were deciding who to blame first. “Well, the sun’s disappearance is frustrating enough. But that’s not the problem. There’s just… something missing from you two.”

“Something missing?” Santiago ripped his shades off as well. “I thought we were killing it. Until the sun decided to take five, that is.”

“Honestly, the photos aren’t terrible,” Pierre admitted with slightly raised hands. “Matter of fact, many photographers would take these and be content with them. But I’m someone who tries his best to stay true to his craft, no matter the personality involved. Sometimes, it’s not just about the photograph taken, but the emotions involved as well. That aspect is lacking from you two.”

“Emotions? What does that even—?”

Lola’s question was cut short when lightning flashed like a menacing, multi-pronged fork across the sky, followed closely by a deafening rumble of thunder.

Santiago nodded in response. “Yeah, we should definitely get inside now.”