Loving all your thoughts ;)
11
- wicked game -
Rosalie is a natural, of course.
I don't have to tell her how to pose or what to do, and my camera, unfortunately, loves her. She knows when to be pensive, when to smile, and how to make it all seem effortless.
Edward, however, is making my job… difficult. I have a feeling it's on purpose, so I'm forced to talk to him.
Lift your chin.
Don't touch your hair.
Stop staring directly into the camera.
Stop staring directly into the camera.
Stop staring directly into the camera.
He keeps doing that, though—staring at me. It's unnerving, even with the shield of the lens.
His blue suit looks good under the lights. He looks good under the lights. In any light, really. But I guess I'd know that firsthand.
Daylight, sunset.
The dim glow of our bedroom.
Memories of him in the moonlight come to mind, hovering over me in our bed and waking me at three in the morning because he just had to have me.
A flush rises up my chest, and I push those sensual thoughts away.
Edward and Rosalie make small talk while I maneuver around them. They banter a little. They have great chemistry and will look flawless on TV together. It makes my stomach churn with jealousy though. If they have chemistry on-screen, I don't even want to know what it would be like off-screen… or in bed.
There are a few people milling about behind us in the studio, but they stay out of the way, not really paying attention while I work.
Edward makes a joke, and Rosalie laughs. I capture it—his eyes on her face, her mouth open just enough, head tilted in his direction. It makes for a great shot.
I wonder how many of these I can get away with accidentally deleting.
Rosalie mentions something about them going to dinner later tonight, and I need them to stop talking right the fuck now.
"So, when did you move to LA, Edward?" I ask him, interrupting their conversation.
Edward looks surprised… and smug. "How do you know I haven't always lived here?"
The shutter snaps four times before I answer.
"I used to live in Seattle," I explain. "You look… familiar."
"Did you go to U-Dub?" He plays along. "Oh! I remember you. You were a cheerleader, right? Don't tell me we dated?"
The urge to slap him rises, but I use words to fight back.
"Wrong. But I'm sure you were acquainted with many, many cheerleaders," I mutter.
Beyond the lens, I can see Rosalie look between us, confused.
Edward just smirks, likely loving getting a reaction from me.
"Didn't you play for the Mariners?" I ask, playing dumb.
"Seahawks."
"Oh, duh," I say in a fake ditzy tone. "I remember now. Number 3. I think I have your jersey." I actually do. It's the one he wore on the field, and it's hanging in my closet.
"Ohhhh. So you're a fan," he teases, licking his lips.
"Something like that," I mutter again.
Fan.
Estranged wife.
Same thing, I guess.
"I moved here two and a half weeks ago," he finally offers, and I guess that adds up. That was when the movers dropped off my shit.
"Where are you staying?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He chuckles. "That's not exactly information I'd give out to a crazed fan," he jokes.
I'll fucking show you crazed.
"Edward." Rosalie chuckles a little, despite the odd look she throws at him. "He has a strange sense of humor," she tells me, as if I'm offended.
Trust me, bitch. I know him better than you.
I'm suddenly over this.
I drop the camera from my face and scroll through the shots I've gotten so far.
"Why'd you move here?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the screen, proving how not over this I am. "Surely that's not top-secret information?"
"Couldn't pass up the opportunity," is all he says. "So, when did you move here, Bella?"
My head snaps up. I hold his gaze and offer a truth. "It'll be a year in October."
His face falls, his cool demeanor thawing just a bit. He's probably wondering where I was or who I stayed with because I left him in August, just a week after our tenth wedding anniversary. I left him and didn't reach out until months later... on Christmas Eve. Until that day, I ignored his calls. His texts. Emails. I pretended like he no longer existed, even if he still occupied every thought.
"What brought you here?" he asks after collecting himself.
"You know, it's a little complicated," I say sarcastically.
"I highly doubt that," he disagrees.
"It really is."
"Try me," he bites back.
Rosalie clears her throat, her eyes brows pulling together briefly.
"You know what? I think we're done here. I got everything I need," I say, sharply and seriously.
"Um… great, okay. You're so efficient," Rosalie says kindly. "I can't wait to see them."
"We're not done here. I need new headshots," Edward reminds me, standing from his chair.
"We'll have to schedule those for a different time," I lie.
"Why?"
Because I might be on the verge of tears or a panic attack.
"Because I don't do your typical studio headshots," I say, swallowing thickly. This isn't a lie. "Whoever hired me didn't tell me you needed headshots. I usually book a suite at the Ace Hotel, and I doubt they have anything available tonight."
The Ace Hotel isn't actually far from here. In the heart of downtown LA, it's gritty and glamorous. It has the best natural lighting, even on the grayest day. Between that and the aesthetic of the space—exposed brick, a large terrace, and eclectic furniture—it really adds an edgy element that makes my professional headshots stand out from others.
But Edward knows this.
Of course, he fucking does.
The Ace Hotel in Seattle is where we did his headshots the first time we met.
I said it more for Rosalie's benefit, so she wouldn't think I was flaking out on the shoot.
Edward and I have a silent stand-off. Rosalie busies herself on her phone, likely feeling the tension between me and her co-anchor.
"Schedule it for a different time," I tell him firmly.
"When?"
"When I'm better prepared."
When my heart and head can be ready for seeing you, asshole.
"Are you admitting you're not a professional?" he pushes.
Rosalie looks up from her phone.
"Do you two know each other?" she finally asks.
My smile is tight. "If we did, we certainly don't anymore."
Edward laughs bitterly and pulls out his phone.
I wait, curious.
"Hi. I was wondering if you had a suite available for tonight. Preferably with a terrace?" he says holding my gaze. One, two, three beats pass. Green eyes shine. "Wonderful. I'd like to book it under Edward Cullen, please. I'll have my assistant call back with payment information."
"The lighting won't be good enough," I tell him, still trying to find an out.
"The sun sets in two hours. Golden hour is a thing, right?"
I grind my teeth and nod.
He smiles, slow and easy, and with a simple shrug he says, "Ready when you are."