French Kissing (Restless Hearts) by Hunter J. Keane Page A

confusion.
    “I’m sick of your boy drama,” Macy announced on Monday morning. She had listened to my story with a perturbed look on her face. “Pick one. Set the other one free so I can date him.”
    “I know, I know. Poor me.” Even I was tired of hearing about my drama. “What shall we talk about instead?”
    “How about the photo shoot we going to this afternoon. It should be awesome.”
    Macy and I had been chosen to represent Evelyn Rose Fashions at a magazine shoot. It was kind of a big deal, and a lot of our coworkers were jealous of our opportunity.
    “Who is the photographer?” I asked, hoping it was someone ridiculously famous.
    “I’m not sure, but Couture Magazine only works with the very best.” Macy glanced over my shoulder, her eyes narrowing. “More flowers?”
    It was true. Another bouquet of roses was placed on my desk, much to the dismay of the single women around me. My desk now appeared to be hidden in a rose garden.
    Another short note: Sorry about last night.
    Evan was certainly making it hard for me to stay mad about his standoffish behavior the previous night.
    “Three days of roses in a row?” Macy’s eyebrows raised. “You must be amazing in bed.”
    “Well, I am. But I’m not sure that’s what all of this is about,” I said, gesturing to the floral spread.
    “You are being wooed.” Macy stood up to walk back to her desk. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Once he starts regularly getting the milk for free, the roses will stop.”
    In a couple of hours, we were organizing outfits on a rooftop in the heart of Paris. Roses were long forgotten as I worked on quickly hemming a skirt. The models were busy getting their hair and makeup done and the photographer was busy studying the lighting. I don’t know why, but I was surprised that the photographer was female.
    “That’s Clara Beringer. She’s in the top five for female photographers in Europe,” Macy explained as she detangled a stack of gold necklaces.
    “I’ve never heard of her,” I admitted.
    Clara was a typical French beauty; long, dark hair. Pouty lips. Curvy body. I was sure that she had no problem finding dates on a Friday night.
    “Ladies!” She waved to both of us, her words heavily accented when she said, “A little help, please.”
    So Macy and I stood in for the models while Clara made adjustments with her equipment.
    “Two steps to the left, darling.”
    We stepped this way, leaned that way. Lifted and tucked and turned. It was quite fun, actually, pretending to be a model.
    Clara said as she looked through the lens, “You should be a model.”
    “Oh, no.” I blushed hard. “I could never master the catwalk.”
    “The camera loves you,” she said.
    “You sound like Evan,” I muttered.
    Clara lowered the camera. “You don’t mean Evan Carter?”
    I hadn’t expected her to get the reference. But then I remembered that they were both photographers, so maybe I should’ve been more careful.
    “I do, actually.” I tried not to be bothered by the way she looked at me. “Do you know Evan?
    “We used to be involved romantically,” she said, lips pressed tight together.
    “Oh.” Now I was starting to feel self-conscious. Not only was Clara beautiful, she also had photography in common with Evan. She understood him in a way that I never could.
    Clara smirked. “Good luck, darling. He’s quite a handful.”
    I wanted to ask what she meant, but the models were ready now and we were wasting precious daylight hours.
    Clara was an efficient photographer. She hurried through the shoot until she got to the last outfit. “This does not look right,” she said, squinting into one of her monitors. She turned to me. “You. Put it on.”
    “Me?” I squeaked. “Put the dress on?”
    “Yes.”
    She acted like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I was stupefied.
    “Why?”
    Clara gave me an annoyed look that I was sure she had perfected when she was just a baby. “Because I say so. Okay?”
    Macy