CHAPTER 23

“Eduardo, hands on Izzy’s hips. Izzy, place your left hand over his, then turn toward him and touch his jaw with your fingertips. Tenderly, please, you’re not squeezing melons at the supermarket. Now, stare into each other’s eyes. Give me a three-quarter profile, Iz.”

Having posed us just so, Zane starts snapping pictures. I can see him in my peripheral vision, switching up the angles and his body positions every few frames. He stands, he squats down, he moves in closer, then steps back, all the while giving us instructions. “Think about what it was that made you fall for each other . . . Think about how you felt the night you got engaged . . . Think about your wedding day and how excited you are to spend the rest of your lives together . . .”

Hmmmm, why did I “fall” for Eduardo? First and foremost, he’s great-looking. Call me shallow, but that’s pretty damn important. Also, he’s an incredibly sharp dresser. I love this snug, v-neck silk sweater he’s wearing. The color (lavender) isn’t one that many men could pull off, but it looks gorgeous with his dark hair and olive-toned skin. He’s got the sleeves of the sweater pushed up so that his bare forearms are exposed, which is super sexy. And he’s paired the sweater with a pair of light gray trousers that are perfectly tailored to show off his nice butt and muscular legs. What else? Oh, his money! How could I forget about that? If Eduardo were broke, I certainly wouldn’t be marrying him. I would have just had fun with him for a few weeks, then moved on, which has been my M.O. for most of my dating life. It’s definitely Eduardo’s money, power, and prestige that won me over, which makes me materialistic on top of being shallow, I suppose. Oh, well, at least I own it.

“Okay, you two, back up a little bit so that you’re standing in the white block on the floor in front of that archway.” Z gestures at one of the green metal structures that provides an unobstructed view from Vizcaya’s tea house out to the water of the Biscayne Bay. It’s basically like a big picture window without the glass.

We do as Zane asks, but before we can get into position, Eduardo’s phone dings with an incoming text. “I need to check this,” he tells me as he reaches for his phone, which is in the back pocket of his trousers. (Earlier, Zane requested that he take the cell out of his front pocket because the outline of the device was visible through the fabric, which didn’t look great on camera.)

Glancing down at the iPhone’s display, a frown forms on Eduarado’s face. “I have to call the office,” he announces, striding out of the tea house so that he can have some privacy, I guess, not that Nacho, Zane, or I give a flying crap about whatever business he’s got going on. Speaking of our photographer, I notice that his lips are pressed together tightly as if he wants to say something, but is stopping himself.

“Is there a problem?” I wonder, walking toward him across the black and white marble floor with its inlaid compass design, and Nacho seizes the opportunity to attack my face with a powder puff, probably because I’m getting shiny, which can’t be helped when it’s a ninety degree day.

“No problem,” Zane says in an unusually curt tone, then drops down on one knee to pull a different lens out of his camera bag and switch it with the one he was using.

“Clearly, there is. So, tell me,” I command while Nacho fusses with the wisps of hair hanging in my face.

Zane rises to his feet, with a water bottle in hand. “This photo shoot should have taken an hour max, but Nacho and I have already been here for two. You and your fiancé were forty-five minutes late to the location—”

“Eduardo was in a meeting that ran long, then he had to change clothes. We got here as fast as we could.”

“And since the two of you have been here, he has taken a break every five goddamn minutes to read a text, answer his phone, or make a call. You know how those kinds of interruptions eff up the flow of a shoot. That’s why most photographers make everyone turn off their phones during a session.” Twisting off the cap, Zane gulps down some of the water, then hands the Dasani bottle to me.

I wave off Nacho so that he’ll get his hands out of my face and I can take a sip of water. After I’m hydrated, I say, “I know this isn’t ideal, but you have to understand what a busy man Eduardo is. He’s second-in-command at a huge corporation—”

“He picked this afternoon, Izzy, and you’re only doing these photos to please his mother. He could make more of an effort. And if he places such a high value on his time, he should be more respectful of other people’s. I had to take the day off work to do this shoot, and Esteban was not happy about it.”

“He’ll get over it,” I retort flippantly, which earns me a frown from Zane.

“We’re talking about my job, Izzy, and what I do is just as important to me as what Eduardo does is to him. So, I’d appreciate it if you showed me and my work the same courtesy. I’m only here today, doing this shoot and pissing off my boss, as a favor to you—”

“Woah!” I hold up my hand to stop him mid-sentence. “You’re not the one doing anyone any favors here. I did you,” I poke him in the chest with my index finger, “a favor when I asked you to shoot these engagement photos. You’re making more money doing this shoot than Esteban pays you in a month, the pictures will make a nice addition to your portfolio, and now you can brag to prospective clients that you’ve done work for the Sandovals, who are one of the most renowned families in Miami.”

“Thanks anyway, but I have no intention of trading on the Sandoval name to further my career and I definitely won’t be putting any of the pictures from today’s shoot in my portfolio.”

A prickle of alarm shoots up my spine, and I’m suddenly on red alert. “Why not? What’s wrong with the pictures? Have you been sabotaging them somehow?”

“Of course not. From a photographic standpoint, the pictures look great, but . . .,” he trails off, looking uncomfortable.

Nacho jumps in to explain, “Zane’s too nice to say it, but I’m not. Engagement photos are supposed to be about romance and showing the connection between two people, but that’s not what we’ve been getting from you and Eduardo today. You’ve been vamping it up for the camera, just using your fiancé as a prop, while he’s been totally disengaged and expressionless. You’re just two attractive people posing; there’s no personality, no chemistry.”

“We have tons of chemistry!” I stomp my suede platform sandal to emphasize my declaration.

“Well, it ain’t showing up on film, chica. Look at the pics.” Nacho gestures at the camera hanging around Zane’s neck. “They don’t lie.”

Z unhooks his Nikon from the neck strap, and I move to stand next to him so that I can see the camera’s display screen while he scrolls through the gallery from today’s shoot. “I look smokin’ hot!” is the first thing I notice.

“Yeah, and I’m sure that’s what Señora Sandoval was hoping for with these pictures. She can show them to all her friends the next time they’re playing canasta and say, ‘Look at this sex kitten my son is marrying! Muy caliente, right, ladies?’” Nacho rolls his eyes, and I stick my tongue out at him.

Zane keeps scrolling and I wince when a series of pictures where Eduardo and I are standing on some beautiful stone steps next to a fountain come up. I’m two steps above Eduardo, leaning forward with my arm around his neck and there’s a significant amount of cleavage on display. “Okay, so these might be a little too boob-errific for Eduardo’s mom . . . and this group too . . . and these.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have worn a dress with a neckline that plunges down to your navel,” Nacho snarks.

I gaze down at my chest to confirm, “It’s not that low-cut.” I mean, yes, there is a lot of tan skin and curves on display, but it’s not like I’m about to flash nipple or anything. And other than the cleavage, this dress is relatively demure. It’s lace, which is soft and feminine, also kind of see-through, but that’s just an illusion because there is a lining. And the dress is ivory, a virginal shade I haven’t donned since my First Communion.

“The dress would be fine if you’d stand up straight, but you keep reverting to your default bikini pose, with your back arched and your chest sticking out,” Zane tells me what is already painfully clear from looking at the pictures. “Also, these come-hither looks you’ve been giving the camera read more condom ad than engagement photo.”

“Ha!” Nacho points at the latest photo to pop up on the camera. “You’re licking your lips in this one, Iz! It looks like a screen cap from a late night commercial for a one-eight hundred chat line, you know, for phone sex.”

“All right, all right,” I concede, pushing the camera away. “You’ve both made your point. I didn’t realize I was sexing it up so much in these pictures, or that Eduardo looked so checked out. I will take your notes and make the appropriate adjustments moving forward.”

“We won’t be able to take anymore pictures unless you can get your man off the phone.” Nacho jerks a thumb toward the tea house’s exit.

“Leave Eduardo to me. You two go set up on the boat landing. I think we need a change of scenery.”

Zane shrugs and starts gathering up all of his photo-taking paraphernalia while Nacho grabs his hot pink crocodile makeup case, which was given to him by one of his bridezilla clients years ago. (According to Nacho, the case is so tacky it’s chic!) I let the guys precede me out of the tea house and follow them over the Venetian-style bridge to the palm tree-lined walkway where Eduardo is standing, looking out at Vizcaya’s magnificent breakwater barge, a limestone sculpture designed to look like a boat and decorated with carvings of mythical sea creatures. (The residents of Vizcaya used to party hard on that barge back in the day—I wish I’d been around then!) Eduardo’s so engrossed in his phone call that I bet he’s not even paying attention to his lovely surroundings and I soon find that those include me because he doesn’t so much as acknowledge my presence when I walk up next to him. I wave my hand in his face in an attempt to get his attention and his response is to hold up a finger, silently asking me to give him a minute. I feel like he’s already had more than enough time to take care of business today and I’m officially tired of playing second fiddle to his work.

Although I briefly entertain the fantasy of grabbing the phone out of his hand and chucking it into the bay, I know that that would probably be the end of our engagement and it would be foolish of me to throw away all the time, effort, and good behavior I’ve put into this relationship for a moment’s satisfaction. So, I take a deep breath and wait him out, although I do cross my arms and tap my foot, just to be sure he’s aware that I’m irritated and impatient.

The minute he requested turns out to be about five, so I have trouble controlling my snippiness when he finally ends the call and turns toward me. “Hi, remember me—your fiancée? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this,” I gesture at the water and the mansion behind us, “is not a boardroom. You and I are here to take our engagement photos, not cut a business deal, or approve an advertising campaign, or go over quarterly sales figures.”

“I know, cariño,” he rubs my arm soothingly, “and I apologize, but there’s just so much going on at the office right now. In fact, I’ve already been away too long and really should be getting back.”

My jaw drops in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You can’t leave; we don’t even have a decent engagement photo yet!”

His face crinkles in confusion. “How can we not? Your friend has taken dozens of them, and I’m sure you look beautiful in each and every one.”

He’s trying to flatter me into not being pissed and normally it would work, but not today, not after having our mutual shortcomings as photo subjects pointed out to me by my friends. “It’s not how I look in the pictures; it’s how we look as a couple and I’m telling you right now, Eduardo, we did not sell it.”

“I don’t understand. What are we trying to sell?”

Why is he being so obtuse?

“Our relationship! That we’re happy together. In all the pictures we’ve taken today, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here with me; you’re not relaxed, you’re not smiling.” Yeah, that’s right. I’m placing all the blame for these crappy pictures on him. I already know how to fix my half of the problem (tone down the va-va-voom and act enamored like I did with the succession of himbos I was paired with on the telenovela). Now, it’s up to Eduardo to do his part.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted today.” He sighs and rolls his head from side-to-side, trying to loosen up the muscles in his neck, where he holds all of his tension. Normally, I’d offer him a massage, but my magic fingers are on strike until he falls in line and does these pictures properly. “We’re looking to acquire another liquor company, which could feasibly double our revenue, and there’s just so much involved . . .”

“You’re being torn in a lot of directions; I get it. And I’m sure that compared to your business dealings, this photo shoot seems trivial, but we’re not here for us, we’re here for Maria. You’re her only child. She’s so proud of you and excited about this wedding. She wants to mark the occasion of our engagement with a beautiful picture that she can share with everyone she cares about. Don’t we owe it to her to do our best with these photos? And don’t we want to have nice memories of the time we spent together taking these shots?”

He nods and reaches for my hand. “Of course, mi amada. Forgive me.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it.

“Then,” I snake my free hand around his waist and pull his phone from his pocket, “let’s turn this off for the next thirty minutes.”

“But—” He starts to protest, but it’s too late because I’ve already powered down the device.

“Whatever’s happening back at the office will keep for a half-hour,” I assure him. “Can you switch out of executive mode and give me your undivided attention so that we can enjoy this experience and that joy will be reflected in the pictures?”

“Yes,” he agrees, but there’s a slightly panicked look in his eye that tells me he’s already counting down the minutes until I restore his lifeline to the company. If there weren’t so many people (mostly families) wandering these gardens, I’d drag him behind the nearest well-manicured shrub for a quickie to loosen him up, with the added bonus of him not being able to think about anything but me (the great orgasm-giver) for a while afterwards. Damn all these tourists!

“Come on then.” I tug on his hand. “Zane and Nacho are waiting for us at the boat landing. I think it’ll be the perfect spot for us to shoot ‘the one.’”