“Iseethose things. All the media wants to see is the daughter of Huxley Enterprises and what that person should be. Rosalind has never let that define her. I admire that. Besides, she’s not aHuxley anymore. She’s a Rutherford, and Rutherfords don’t fit the mold; we break it.”
Chapter 8
Rosalind
Fuck I was in trouble.
First, he came up with the idea of installing shelves for me to display my photography…Once I got around to actually taking some pictures.
Then he installed them with no shirt and his hat on backwards—basically carpenter porn.
Then, he put the smarmy journalist my mother set us up with in his place. Not to mention, we’d only known each other for a few days, and hesaw me. He saw me more clearly than my parents, my shallow friends, or the media ever had.
I stared at his profile. The slight bump on his nose, the odd gray in his beard, the full lips that I hadn’t gotten nearly enough of a taste of.
Kirk cleared his throat, and I turned back to face him. “So, Rosalind, you know some of the most influential people in the world. What made you decide to settle down with a carpenter rather than one of the many rich and famous people you know?”
Fucking hell.
I should have picked my own journalist rather than going with this guy. He was too close to the family. He was giving us the simple questions he’d agreed to. He was just asking them in the most insulting way possible.
“He’s a contractor, actually. His company focuses on sustainable renovations, which I think is admirable.” I cleared my throat. “I could say our meeting was just opposites attract, but it’s more than that. There is a box that I am expected to fit into that I just don’t. Derek didn’t grow up with those expectations, so he doesn’t have them for me. We may seem very different, but at our core, we’re the same.”
His arm slipped from the back of the couch to rest around my shoulder, and he gave me a quick squeeze. The lines between what we had invented and what was real were starting to blur.
We answered a few more questions before heading to a studio for professional pictures to go with the article.
As soon as we were through the doors, Derek was pulled in one direction and I in another. Hair, makeup, wardrobe. I was used to it and over it in the same breath. My mind wandered to Derek, who was completely out of his element, and I wished I could reach out and squeeze his hand.
The photographer was aiming for casual and simple, so I ended up in jeans and a t-shirt with my hair down. I had a pound of makeup on my face, but it was made to look as natural as possible. The only jewelry they had me wear was my wedding ring. I doubted Derek even remembered us stumbling into a late-night pawn shop and buying the rings after we got married.
Once I was ready, I went out into the studio where Derek was already waiting. They must have Googledlumberjackand stolen the outfit from the first picture that came up. White t-shirt, plaid flannel unbuttoned, and faded jeans. The look wasn’t far from the Derek I saw every day, and like always, he looked good enough to eat.
The photographer had us sit in front of a white screen, and she started barking rapid-fire orders at her assistant on how to pose us.
Why did everyone in this town look so frazzled, and how had I never noticed it before?
They finally settled on Derek sitting with his legs stretched out. I was sitting between them, cross-legged, while the assistant fiddled with my hair.
“Derek, put your arms around her waist and turn your face into her neck,” the photographer instructed.
“You good with this?” he whispered close to my ear.
I leaned back into his chest and nodded. He wrapped his arms around me, his frame impossibly big behind me. I could smell whatever product they’d used in his hair with an underlying hint of freshly cut wood from his project this morning. It was still Derek, but it was a version of him that wasn’t totally real. The thought soured my stomach, but when he moved his face closer to my neck and I felt his breath skate across my skin, we were the only two people in the world.
“I don’t even have to tell you two to smile, you already are,” the photographer praised as she snapped shots from different angles.
His body was warm against mine, and I nestled further into him, relaxing into the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I could have fallen asleep in his arms, except then we were ushered into the next pose.
We stood, we sat, we hugged, we smiled. If I hadn’t loved the feel of his hands on me so much, it would have felt like it took an eternity.
“Alright, one more, then we’re done,” the photographer said. “I want a picture of you two kissing, but Derek, you are going to lean her back and hold her leg. You can hold her weight, right?”
He shot her a look, and I laughed.
We got into position, his hand on my lower back, the other on my thigh, before he tipped us forward, so I was leaning back far enough for my hair to hang down in one long sheet.
I hoped Derek was paying attention to the photographer’s instructions because as soon as his eyes flicked to my lips, I was only focused on one thing. I itched to breach the distance between us and bring my lips to his, but waited patiently for him to make the move. I wanted to get the picture we needed and get the fuck out of here.
