He’d been told one of his strengths was his ability to set his photography subjects at ease. He covered one of her fidgeting hands with his and gave it a squeeze before letting go. Their gazes met. He’d always been intrigued by the color of her eyes. Not really green, but not brown enough to be considered hazel. Flecks of gold and copper contrasted with the deep jade of her irises.
He’d love to get a shot of her face. Natural light, maybe on the beach at dusk. An unfamiliar sensation settled in his chest, like a dumbbell resting on his lungs. Guilt? Apprehension? Attraction? He rubbed a palm over his heart.
“Already forgotten. So we can’t talk about where you’re headed. How about where you’ve been for the past eight years?” He gave her an authentic smile. No need to fake too much with Reagan. He actually liked her. Thought they had a crack at a future once.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Sure. College out East—”
“Harvard, right?”
Reagan’s cheeks tinted pink. “No, I changed my mind at the last minute. University of Pennsylvania. MBA from Wharton.”
“I knew you’d go Ivy League. Did you like it?”
“I needed a break from the spotlight.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“I’m in management for a luxury resort chain based out of Chicago.”
He shook his head. “I always figured your dad would suck you into politics.”
“Believe me, he’s trying. But I like what I’m doing. I’m on track for a big promotion and it’s nice not having to always be ‘on.’ You never know who’s listening or watching.” She broke eye contact and glanced around the bar. “Seems like someone’s always waiting to catch me at my worst.”
The damn twinge hit his gut again. He took in a breath through his nose and tried to unclench his jaw. “Yeah, I can imagine. Can’t be easy with your brother trying to keep his wedding under the radar.”
“Dad’s happy for Teddy and Cal. But he doesn’t want the media to paint him as a hypocrite.” She moved her drink to the side as the waitress slid an overflowing platter of nachos onto the table. The tempting scent of melted cheese, spicy chicken, and cilantro settled between them.
“You two need anything else?” the waitress asked.
“Maybe a little more water?” He glanced at Reagan who nodded. “And then the check.”
“Good idea on the food. I didn’t realize how hungry I am.” She took a delicate bite and the tortilla chip cracked, spilling salsa onto her shirt. Her cheeks flushed. “Dangit.” She swiped a chunk of tomato off her chest with a napkin, leaving a small pink circle in its wake. “I don’t know what my problem is today.”
Zach dunked his napkin into his water and leaned across the table. “Here, let me help you with that.” His hand froze in midair. There was no way he could dab at her tit with a handful of soggy napkin.
Eyes wide, Reagan pulled her blazer over her chest. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, don’t worry about it.” She took the wet napkin from him and patted the stain. “I’m sure it will come out at the dry cleaners.”
The speaker crackled and the gate agent announced, “For passengers traveling to Miami on flight 542, we’ll be departing at seven. Boarding will begin in about thirty minutes with our Premier members or anyone needing special assistance on the jet way.”
“Whew, that’s a relief.” Grateful for the interruption, Zach wasn’t about to acknowledge the awkwardness of the last ten seconds. “I thought the storm would set us back quite a while.”
Apparently willing to pretend they didn’t have eight years of questions between them, Reagan picked up the conversation and ran with it. “How about you? I heard you ended up somewhere in California?” She used a fork to lift a pile of cheese-covered chips off the platter and onto her plate.
The wet, see-through splotch on the front of her shirt provided more than a minor distraction, but he forged ahead. “Yeah. I ended up with a scholarship to California Institute of the Arts for most of my undergrad. Then I started working. Mainly magazines, some online outlets, travel assignments.”
“That’s fantastic. I always knew you had talent. I’m glad you decided to get your degree.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, like she’d time traveled back to senior year when she’d tried convincing him to apply to college.
“It meant a lot that you believed in me.” Hell, why had he said that? Sure, it was true. But he couldn’t afford to open the floodgates of the past.
She closed her eyes for a moment. A muscle ticked along her jaw. With a smile devoid of any warmth, she asked, “What’s your favorite assignment been so far?”
Good. She could play the let’s-pretend-the-past-never-happened game, too. “On the record? I got to shoot a swimsuit calendar a few years ago. Private island in the Caribbean. Twelve supermodels. That’s usually my standard answer. Being a magazine and travel photographer, it’s kind of what people expect me to say.”
A tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. He wanted to reach over and run his finger over it to smooth it away. In an effort to keep things lighthearted, he’d just made himself out to be the kind of cliché he’d always hated.
“What about off the record?” she asked.
“An abandoned Buddhist monastery in the Himalayas last year. It’s impossible to describe the complete sense of peace I experienced there. I’ve never been anywhere like that.” Her stare felt like a laser beam, focused on his lips. He watched her watch him as he spoke. Did she think about those seven minutes as often as he had over the years?
She patted her mouth with her napkin, disrupting the moment. “Sorry, you’ve got a tiny bit of sour cream on your lip.”
Shit, no wonder she’d been staring at his mouth. He swiped the napkin across his chin. “Did I get it?”
“No, let me.” She leaned across the table and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with her napkin. “There.”
His gaze slid down the opening of her shirt. Hell-o. The sight of the lacy nude bra sent a rush of blood to his dick and he jerked backward, away from her touch. What the hell? He’d spent days around supermodels in string bikinis, hours with bodies made for sin. But somehow the hint of lace struck him as the sexiest thing he’d seen in months. Or maybe even the past eight years.
“Uh, thanks.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”
The waitress set the bill down on the table, and he reached for his wallet. Reagan did the same.
“I’ve got this,” he said.
“No, my treat.”
“Tell you what. Let me get it now, and next time I’m in town you can take me out for some Chicago deep dish. Whaddaya say?”
Her lips pursed into a slight pout. “Or I could buy you a drink on the plane.”
“Deal.” She still seemed to have the need to control everything. He passed his credit card to the waitress. Reagan slipped her wallet back into her designer bag. The twinge prickled his gut again. He’d have to figure out a way to get Scazzoli off his back about getting pictures of the wedding. Otherwise, by the time her trip to Florida was over, she’d be more likely to offer him a ticket to the bottom of Lake Michigan than a slice of Gino’s deep dish.