Brothers of Paradise Series

“No disagreement here,” he says, stopping at one of the tables that line the street. “Here?”

“Yes, please.” I sink down onto one of the wobbly wooden chairs with a sigh. My whole body aches from the day of walking and shooting, but it’s nothing. I’m in Italy. I’m sitting on a busy street, watching as people from all countries walk hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm.

Rhys motions for a waiter with a wan hand. With his dark hair and tanned skin, he looks more Italian than the model I’d shot with. How would the pictures have looked if he’d been the one who had nuzzled my neck instead of Paolo?

How would it have felt?

We order a pizza each. I go for the parmesan and prosciutto, and a glass of white wine. Rhys raises an eyebrow immediately after I’ve ordered.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Just tell me.”

“Well, most models I’ve met wouldn’t order a pizza just like that.”

I reach for one of the breadsticks and take a decisive bite. “I know.”

“But you do? That’s impressive.”

“It’s not impressive. It’s indulgent. But,” I tell him, waving my breadstick around, “if someone tries to tell me that I’m in Italy for the first time but I’m not allowed to eat pizza or pasta, I might stab them with this.”

Something darkly amused sparks in Rhys’s eyes.

“I would never be that person,” he vows. “I’d be the person handing you more breadsticks as ammunition.”Content is © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

“Good answer.” I reach out and grab the olive oil for good measure, pouring a small dollop onto my bread plate. “In truth, of course I shouldn’t eat this. I should be watching my every bite. My agency likes to remind me that I only have five more years, and that’s a generous estimate.”

“They like to do what?”

“Oh, it’s not very surprising or anything. Models are young. If I’m lucky, one day I won’t be.” I shrug. It’s an obvious thing, and it’s one I’m happy my dad made me well-aware of when I went into the profession. It’s never been my everything-and I’ve seen what’s happened to the models to whom it is everything, who see doom in every new wrinkle and imperfection.

Rhys drinks his wine and a dark lock of his hair falls over his brow. Watching his sprawl on the small chair, long legs stretched out, it’s hard to imagine that I’m somehow the model here.

But I don’t tell him that.

“How did you like shooting Paolo?” I ask him instead. “Considering you don’t like shooting people, shooting two must have been your own personal inferno. Dante’s, perhaps, since we’re in Italy.”

“You read Dante?”

“No one has actually read Dante. People read about Dante.”

A small, sideways smile. “I don’t dislike shooting people. I just don’t like shooting uninteresting people.”

I make a dramatic show of putting a half-eaten breadstick against my heart. It’s not difficult, with the low-plunging neckline of this silky dress.

He snorts. “I don’t mean that you’re uninteresting.”

“Of course you don’t. You just think I’m vain and air-headed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, a furrow on his brow. Like he’s bothered by the words he’d spoken by the pool in the Hamptons. “Well, most models just kinda are, in that they’re being photographed because they’re attractive. I’d want to photograph people to share their story.”

“Like for National Geographic?”

“Something like that, yes.” He raises his wineglass, looking over the rim at me with dark eyes. “And just for the record, I don’t find you air-headed or uninteresting.”

“What a compliment,” I say. “Please, try to control yourself.”

His lips twitch. “It’s very high praise coming from me.”

“So I’m gathering.” I flip my hair and gesture with my hand. “Come on, what else. You don’t find me intolerable? I’m not awful? Hit me with it.”

Rhys snorts, reaching for one of the breadsticks. “You’re not going to monopolize the breadsticks for much longer.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“I guess I ran out.”

My response is cut off by the arrival of two giant, delicious-smelling pizzas. Cheese oozes across the surface. “Bon appetito!” the waiter announces, disappearing back through the throng of tables.

“I’m going to slaughter this pizza,” I announce. “Absolutely demolish it. Blast it into space.”

“Do you have a violence fetish?” Rhys asks calmly, starting to cut his into triangles.

“With pizza? Sure.” I fish up my phone and snap a quick picture of our food.

Rhys groans. “Of course you’re the kind of person to photograph your food.”

“Of course you’re the kind of person to be annoyed by that,” I deadpan. “The way I see it, I can only eat it once, but I can look at it forever.”

“Brilliant logic.” Rhys lifts up a slice to his mouth, taking a bite. For a second, he just closes his eyes and chews. “Yes, this is what it’s supposed to taste like.”

I follow suit and an explosion of marinara sauce, mozzarella and flavorful meat takes place in my mouth. It’s like I’ve died and gone to food heaven. I’d been absolutely right to ignore the little voice in my heads that warns we’re shooting tomorrow too in order to indulge in this. So what if I have to drink a gallon of water to combat the sodium.

You only live once.

“Besides,” I tell Rhys when I’ve regained the ability to speak, “I’m photographing this to send to my little sister.”

“She appreciates unsolicited food pics?”

I shake my head at him. “I can’t believe you went there.”

He shrugs, not looking the least bit contrite. “It was ripe for the taking.”

“And to answer your question, yes, she does want unsolicited food pics. I’m under strict orders to photograph anything of interest to send it back to her. She wants to live vicariously.” Perhaps I’ve revealed a bit more than I meant to, there. It’s clear from my comments that we’re not a family who travels a lot, and he’s, well… a Marchand. A simple Google search the other day had revealed that his older brother is building New York’s new opera house, and that his little sister runs a renowned art gallery.

And that’s not even accounting for his father.