Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
That fills my cup. I started doing boudoir photography in the first place to empower women—capturing the moment when a client starts to see herself differently, beautifully. I don’t want that moment to slip through my fingers. To fade into a blur. I want women to be able to hold on to it always. To remember it. And, when I look back at photos I’ve taken, I can feel their joy. Right now, I carry her joy with me as I straighten up the studio.
The door snicks open, and the click of heels interrupts the quiet as I’m re-hanging a robe. I glance up to see Mai Akamai, a statuesque Japanese woman, striding in with a whirl of jet-black hair and an oversized recycled-plastic purse that she tosses onto the ruby chair.
“Did you hear?” she asks, skipping pleasantries entirely.
I brace myself. Good news rarely starts that way. “Hear what?”
She gestures broadly at the lush studio we’ve curated so carefully, with its sapphire chaise longue and ruby-red chair. “The landlord is raising the rent.”
The silk robe freezes midair in my hand. “Seriously?”
“Twenty percent,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. She flops into the chair, throws her head back dramatically, and lets out a groan. “I didn’t know landlords were taking villain lessons these days.”
My stomach sinks. “Twenty percent? That’s highway robbery.”
“And his reasoning? Get this.” She smirks. “Costs have gone up. Like, what? Air costs more now?”
I hang the robe with deliberate care, gripping the hanger tightly. “It’s space. He already owns it.”
My mind spins. Twenty percent more rent isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a threat to everything I’ve built here over the last year or so. Everything I need to make it on my own. My chest tightens with worry.
But there’s no point in stressing. Time to solve this problem. “We could look for another space. Maybe band together with the other photographers here and find something better?”
Mai’s eyes light up. “Yes! Girl, yes.”
The truth is finding another space could be just as expensive—or worse. My to-do list feels endless already: dog-sitting for Miles, this studio, shoots for the hockey and football teams, my editing backlog. Can I handle adding a studio hunt on top of everything else?
No idea, but I’ll have to find a way.
By the time I arrive at the Sea Dogs arena, after stopping at Miles’s place to let the four-pack out, I’m no closer to an answer. But I do my best to set the studio issue aside when I run into Melissa at her cookie concession cart. It’s closed now, since there’s no home game of course. But she’s hanging up some new signage with Christian’s wife, Liv, who’s got two little twin toddlers sitting nearby on the floor, listening to a story that Melissa’s school-age daughter—I’m guessing that’s who the blonde with pigtails is—reads to them from a kid’s book.
“Hey, Leighton!” Melissa calls out, urging me over.
I stop, checking out the pink and purple typography on a pretty white sign advertising cookies. “Hey. How’s it going? The new sign looks good.”
“Thanks. I bribed Liv to help me out,” Melissa says, nodding to her friend. “With my new sexy and sweet cookies.”
“You did it? You made them?”
“I did. You’re the inspiration,” Melissa says.
“And they worked. I’d pretty much do anything for them,” Liv says.
And the proof of that is right in front of me with Liv helping out. “I’m so glad. I’m guessing you’re not selling them here though?” I ask Melissa, since I doubt lingerie-shaped cookies will fly at a family-friendly sporting event.
They both laugh. “Nope. I’m selling them online,” Melissa says, then bends down behind the counter of her cart and pops up quickly with a bag. “But here’s some for you if you want. As a thank you for the idea.”
I peer inside at a handful of pink, red, and white bra-shaped cookies. They’re adorable. “I will enjoy these tonight.”
I say goodbye, then tuck the treats into my bag and head to my temp desk to edit some evergreen content—more high-pawing shots of Scuppers and the team, as well as adorable snaps of players tossing crocheted rescue dogs into the stands at the last home game. The team partnered with a local charity to make and sell the dogs in the likeness of Scuppers, and the pictures are perfect for Chanda to post on off-days.
I narrow my focus to the task, only the task. But the number keeps circling in my mind—twenty percent, twenty percent. No matter how I slice it, it’s too much.
I pause on a shot of Miles, flinging a crocheted dog to fans eagerly stretching their arms to catch it. He’s having a blast. Something he didn’t have in Vancouver with his injury. Something he’s having now, playing for this team that my dad manages.
My heart squeezes.
He’s not doing it on purpose and yet my feelings for Miles always find a way to complicate things—on the ice, off the ice, and somewhere in between. Then again, I complicate his life too.