Stone In Love

Chapter 8

Like all good Mondays, mine were filled with the same responsibilities as the folks who scrambled to make the subway by seven and slouch behind their cubicles to pound out eight hours for the man. The only difference with me was that I could do it in my sweats from the comfort of my living room.

After breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, I rolled a chair up to my desk, switched on my laptop, and inserted the SD card from the Saint Thomas Church shoot. I'd been anticipating as well as dreading going through the photos of Vincent. I knew if I stared at his gorgeous face long enough, I would convince myself it was a good idea to accept his offer for a date. I was still trying to ditch the dream I had of him climbing through my bedroom window in the nude and pulling me out of bed to bang me against the wall. It was fucking hot. As for Colin, he had not made contact since my meltdown, which I felt both relieved and bummed about. I didn't want to be labeled a psycho bitch, despite the fact the title was well-deserved.

Dragging my head out of the clouds, I settled in to tackle the task at hand, focusing on the first few images of the church façade. I always popped off a dozen arbitrary shots at the beginning of a shoot to warm up. You never knew which one would be the money shot. The next thirty were of the church's interior and Vincent at the podium, with his rigid pose and no-nonsense expression. When I finally got to the shoot in the parishioners meeting room, my heart started beating harder. Why was I so anxious to see the close-ups?

My typical methodology was to give each photo five seconds of deliberation as I made my initial sweep, taking note of any with potential. That method failed me completely as Vincent's seductive presence had me and my libido actively engaged with every image that graced the screen. The man not only commanded the frame, he owned it, subduing the onlooker without mercy. I became more enraptured with every pose, and when I arrived at the photos where he'd removed his jacket, I forced myself to take a break, sipping my coffee as I suppressed the lusty throb between my thighs. This beautiful man wanted to date me. 

Damn.

I forced myself to pick up the pace, clicking through shots without breaking my stride, and just when I thought I had a handle on the situation, I came across a pose that had my hand frozen over the mouse. I remembered exactly what had happened before I captured the moment with my camera. Vincent's publicist had commented about his serious expression ruining the shoot, and she suggested he excuse himself to remove the stick he had up his ass. He responded by saying he would only oblige her if she agreed to carry it in her briefcase. This banter had sparked a smile from him, and I managed to press the shutter before it disappeared. The resulting photo had me gaping in front of my laptop screen. It was a momentary glimpse into the man who appeared to take great care protecting his emotions. Gotcha, Mr. Valentino.

Several hours of dedicated diagnosis later, and I was sending off the photos to Sheila Waterson at MegaManhattan Magazine, including the shot of Vincent wearing a modest but telling smile. I had no doubt she would be creaming her panties when she saw it. Properly motivated by a successful day, I engaged in thirty uninterrupted minutes of Pilates, followed by a brief but necessary nap. My night owl tendencies meant midday naps were crucial to my well-being. Not that they helped much. I was still a raving lunatic.

By six, I was showered and dressed for my guided meditation class. Street traffic remained steady, but the sidewalk was easily navigable, and I hit my destination by six-thirty. My instructor, Shay, greeted me with a full body embrace, something she taught in her vulnerability course, and an hour later I walked away feeling like the world could implode and I would handle it with calm and grace. Shay's guided meditations were much better than any drug. If only Theo had discovered it before he imploded.

With my meditation pillow tucked into my backpack, I discretely armed myself with pepper spray as I trotted determinedly down the sidewalk. Dusk was giving way to dark when I crossed the street at the light, and foot traffic had thinned to a couple evening joggers. It was rare that I felt threatened in New York City. I'd grown up in DC for chrissake, but my confidence had waned over the past few days, and I couldn't seem to shake the feeling I was being watched. I wanted to blame the Valentino boys for my newfound paranoia, but I had to admit the feeling started prior to our meeting.