Hailey
The brownstone is gorgeous. It has high ceilings and gleaming hardwood floors, with the kind of kitchen that appears in ho design magazines.
"This is where they put up talent?" Josh asks, running his hand along the marble countertop. "Maybe I should have been a model all along."
I snort, setting my cara bag down with much more care than Josh showed his luggage. "Don’t get used to it. This is temporary."
"Like all good things," Josh says. "So, which bedroom do you want?"
I hesitate, then point to a door down the hall. "That one has better light for morning shots. I’d like to use it to review my work."
"Done," Josh says, grabbing his bag and heading toward the other bedroom. "I’ll take the dark cave, then."
"It’s not a cave," I call after him. "It just doesn’t face east."
I watch him disappear into the second bedroom, and for a mont, I stand frozen in the entryway, trying to process the surreal turn my life has taken in just twenty-four hours.
Yesterday, I was flying to New York for my dream job. Today, I’m sharing a luxury brownstone with a man who followed across the country on a whim—a man who’s now sohow part of my shoot.
With a deep breath, I wheel my suitcase toward the east-facing bedroom. The space is minimalist but elegant. A queen bed stood with crisp white linens, a desk by the window, and a small sitting area. I set my cara bag on the desk, then sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah: "How’s it going? Crushing it, I bet!"
I stare at the ssage, wondering how I could possibly explain what’s happening. Hey, your childhood friend followed to New York, crashed my photoshoot, got hired as a model, and now we’re roommates. No big deal.
Instead, I type: "It’s going great! The creative director likes my work."
There is no way I can have my brother find out about this.
I set the phone down and began unpacking my equipnt. The familiar ritual of checking lenses and arranging my workspace helps calm my racing thoughts. I need to focus on the job, not on Josh and his infuriating dimples.
A knock at my door startles .
"Hey," Josh says, leaning against the doorfra. "I was thinking about ordering food. Any preferences?"
"Whatever you want," I say, turning back to my cara. "I’m not picky."
"Everyone’s picky about sothing," he counters, stepping into the room. "Co on, what’s your comfort food after a long day?"
I sigh, setting down my lens cloth. "Thai. Green curry, extra spicy."
Josh grins. "See? Was that so hard? I’ll find us the best Thai place that delivers."
As he turns to leave, I call after him, "This doesn’t an we are going to date, you know."
He pauses, looking back with that crooked smile. "Of course not. This is strictly professional roommates ordering professional dinner after a professional day of work."
Despite myself, I laugh. "You are ridiculous."
"So I’ve been told," he says, his eyes lingering on mine for a mont too long before he disappears down the hall.
I return to my cara, but my focus is shot. The images from today’s shoot fill the screen as I scroll through them.
Josh leaning against the concrete pillar, his expression intense, vulnerable, magnetic. The cara loves him, which is infuriating given that he’s never modeled before today.
I click to the next photo.
Josh again. This ti caught mid-laugh between shots, sunlight streaking in behind him through the warehouse windows. His grin is crooked, easy. Natural.
Too natural.
I zoom in slightly, studying the way his eyes crinkle, the way the light hits the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t just take a good picture, he inhabits it. Like he was always ant to be there. And worse, the chemistry between us practically hums off the screen.
I groan, flopping back onto the bed. This is a problem. A very pretty, infuriating, unpredictable problem.
Because Josh is not part of the plan. The plan was to co to New York, impress Marcus Winters, maybe cry alone in the bathroom once or twice, and leave with a full portfolio and zero emotional complications.
But then Josh had to go and show up. Uninvited. Charming. Supportive. Wearing that leather jacket and making that stupid, knowing smile.
My phone buzzes again. I half-expect it to be Sarah again, or worse, Matthew. But it’s neither.
Josh: "FYI, the best Thai place is also the spiciest. You’ve been warned."
Josh: "ETA 30 mins. I got extra rice so you don’t die."
I smile despite myself. I shouldn’t be smiling.
I glance back at the photos again. One in particular stops : Josh, leaning forward slightly, eyes locked with the lens like he knows I’m there. Like the picture isn’t just for the cara—it’s for .
I slam the laptop shut.
Nope. Not thinking about that right now. Tonight is green curry, photo backups, and maybe a hot shower.
Yes, shower will do good.
By the ti I stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped tight and hair damp against my back, I already feel a little more like myself. Clearer. Steadier. Focused.
Or I was, until I open the bathroom door and find Josh standing in the hallway with two brown takeout bags in hand.
He blinks. "Oh...sorry! I should’ve waited till you said okay to co in."
His eyes drop for just a second before darting back to my face, but it’s enough. My cheeks flare red.
"It’s fine," I mutter, tightening the towel knot and moving quickly past him toward my room.
"You want to eat in the kitchen or your room?" he calls after , doing a valiant job of sounding normal.
"Kitchen," I say over my shoulder, not breaking stride. "Give five."
I co back to the kitchen, changed into leggings and a loose sweatshirt. Josh is already unpacking the food containers, laying everything out on the table.
"I didn’t skimp," he says, gesturing proudly. "Curry, spring rolls, mango sticky rice. The works."
"You trying to butter up?" I ask, sliding into a seat.
He grins. "Is it working?"
Unfortunately, yes.
We eat mostly in silence at first, the only sounds the occasional clink of forks and satisfied hums of approval. Eventually, Josh breaks the quiet.
"So... I looked over the schedule for tomorrow. You’ve got your morning block with Marcus, then a set change in the afternoon?"
I nod, chewing. "Yeah. New backdrop, lighting tweak, then a smaller, moodier setup for the solo shots."
He hesitates. "Am I in those?"
I glance up.
"Actually, yes," I admit, setting down my fork. "Marcus specifically requested you for the ’urban warrior’ series. Apparently, your brooding stare sells magazines."
Josh’s face lights up with that boyish pride that makes my stomach do a little flip. "My brooding stare, huh?"
"Don’t let it go to your head," I warn, but it’s too late. He’s already sitting straighter, practicing what I assu is his idea of a smoldering look. It’s ridiculous and yet sohow still works, which only irritates more.
"How’s this?" he asks, narrowing his eyes dramatically.
I snort, nearly choking on my curry. "That’s your ’I’m constipated’ face, not your brooding face."
"Oh, so you’ve been studying my faces?" He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"As your photographer, it’s my job," I counter, trying to sound professional despite the heat creeping up my neck.
Josh leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Can I ask you sothing?"
"Depends on what it is," I say cautiously.
"Why photography? What made you choose it?"
The question catches off guard. Most people ask about equipnt or techniques, not the why.
"I..." I hesitate, setting down my fork. "When I was sixteen, my grandfather died. He left his old Nikon. It was ancient, completely manual, and I had no idea how to use it."
Josh listens intently, his food forgotten.
"That sumr was hard. My parents were fighting, and Matthew was away at college. I would take these long walks with the cara, just to get out of the house." I smile at the mory. "One day, I took a picture of this old man feeding pigeons. When I developed it, there was this... mont captured. His smile, the way the light hit his face. It was like I’d preserved sothing that would have otherwise disappeared forever."
"That’s beautiful," Josh says softly.
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Anyway, I was hooked after that. I saved every penny for better equipnt, took classes at the community college. It just... beca everything."
"And now you’re shooting for Luxe," Josh says with genuine admiration. "That’s incredible, Hailey."
"Well, I haven’t technically done it yet," I remind him. "Tomorrow’s the real test."
"You’ll nail it," he says with such conviction that I almost believe him.
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