“That’s an alarming introduction.”
“A collector wants photographs of the current exhibition for a private catalog.
I recommended you.”
“Great.”
“There is one complication.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
“The collector’s dinner is at Moretti.”
I nearly said no.
Then I remembered something Luca had said the first morning.
Good food should be photographed well.
I didn’t want his world.
But I also didn’t want fear of him making professional decisions for me.
“I’m taking the job.”
Zoe exhaled.
“I hoped you’d say that.”
The following Thursday, I walked into Moretti carrying two cameras and enough determination to qualify as protective equipment.
The restaurant was beautiful in the same understated way Luca’s business card had been.
Warm amber light.
Dark wood.
White linen.
Nothing flashy.
A manager greeted me by name.
“Ms.
Dupont, the gallery group is in the private dining room.”
“Thank you.”
I had taken three steps when Luca appeared near the bar.
He stopped.
So did I.
He wore a dark suit instead of the coat I associated with the café.
For once, surprise arrived on his face before he could hide it.
“Chloe.”
“Luca.”
He glanced at my cameras.
“Working?”
“Zoe’s collector dinner.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
That seemed to surprise him even more.
He nodded toward the dining room.
“I won’t interfere.”
“Good.”
He began to step aside.
“Wait.”
Luca stopped.
I had imagined this conversation in several versions.
In most of them I was colder, sharper, completely immune to his face.
Reality was less convenient.
“I found a photograph from Monday,” I said.
His brow creased.
“You’re in the background.
Before we met.”
“Should I be worried about the photographer who secretly photographed me?”
I gave him a flat look.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Understood.”
