No Kissing Allowed

Chapter 12: Not My Type on Paper

Chapter 12: Not My Type on Paper

So much for no lingering looks.

Jamie let his eyes slide over Cora's form. She stood in profile with the sun high in the sky above her. The light gleamed against her hair and cast undulating shadows on the sand. She wore a bottle-green one-piece bathing suit today. A halter neckline with cut-outs in the midsection that nipped in her waist and emphasized the boneless lushness of her hips.

Jamie dipped the outer rim of his left hand into the green paint. He carved her outline onto his canvas, recalling how he had traced that sinuous shape with the same part of his hand last night.

The blasted TV crew couldn't have devised a more ruinous activity for the two of them. Jamie could almost laugh at the irony, if not for the foreboding knowledge of what was to come. Today's game had been entitled: "Not My Type on Paper." An art contest, finger-painting each other's portraits, with a very special prize to the winner.

Never mind that that winner had already been predetermined by production. Mel and Robbie had pulled him aside after lunch and explained the prize that he would win.

Jamie hadn't seen the plot twist coming, fool that he was. He'd taken production at their word when they said he and his co-star would be together for the full month of taping, but the writers had decided to replace her with someone they deemed more camera-worthy. His "prize" would be a new lovely co-star, hand selected by the all-knowing matchmakers. It turned out all his careful scheming had been for naught.

Ah, well, no surprise there. Why should this show be any different from every other job he'd ever done? Every photoshoot involved the same unspoken battle. Model versus photographer. Subject versus artist. The battle for control over what story the finished piece would tell—what version of his soul the camera would capture.

He ought to know by now, he didn't stand a chance of winning that war. The model always lost. He was little more than a lump of clay to be molded. An object to be posed. That was the role he'd chosen for himself early on in life. No point raising a fuss about it now.

So Jamie held his peace and went along with the producers' plans for this so-called competition. He didn't allow himself to think about the outcome.

He looked up from his work and caught Cora's eyes on him. She stood at her own easel twenty feet away, and Jamie called to her across the sand. "How's it going over there?"

"Stop changing positions, you cheater!"

The sea breeze tugged at her hair, swirling it about her shoulders. She raised an arm to brush it away from her face, then emitted a high-pitched yelp as she realized she had purple paint up to her forearm. The color stained her cheek and streaked the curtain of hair beside her face.

"Stop changing colors!" Jamie shouted back.

He dabbed his pinkie in his own pot of purple paint and added a splotch to the area he'd designated for her head.

He heard the tinkle of her laughter carrying on the breeze, and he felt a pang.

Jamie shoved the feeling aside. He wouldn't dignify that emotion by assigning it a name. It didn't matter what he felt. It was out of his control. He wasn't the master of his fate, or hers, as much as he liked to play make-believe.

No point fighting the inevitable. In any case, it was probably for the best.

Last night, he'd ventured close to the point of no return. He'd been sorely tempted by those curves now painted on his canvas. Her questions and her movements had grown increasingly insistent as the night wore on. He'd only stopped himself when he realized she'd fallen asleep in his arms.