by Lexy Timms
Copyright 2017 Lexy Timms
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
All rights reserved.
Capturing Her Beauty
BBW Romance Series # 1
Copyright 2017 by Lexy Timms
Cover by: Book Cover by Design
BBW ROMANCE SERIES
Capturing Her Beauty
Book 1
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B074VGLCG1
Pursuing Her Dreams
Book 2
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B073X9368J
Tracing Her Curves
Book 3
Amazon: COMING SOON
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Capturing Her Beauty Blurb
Kayla Reid has always been into fashion and everything to do with it. Growing up wasn’t easy for her. A bigger girl trying to squeeze into the fashion world is like trying to suck an entire gelatin mold through a straw; possible, but difficult.
She found herself an open door as a designer and jumped right in. Her designs always made the models smile. The colors, the fabrics, the styles. Never once did she dream of being on the other side of the lens. She got to watch her clothing strut around on others and that was good enough.
But who says you can’t have a little fun when you’re off the clock?
Sometimes trying on the latest fashions is just as good as making them. Kayla’s hours in front of the mirror were a guilty pleasure.
A chance meeting with one of the company photographers may turn into more than just an impromptu photo shoot.
Table of Contents
BBW ROMANCE SERIES
Find Lexy Timms:
Capturing Her Beauty Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Pursing Her Dreams Blurb
More by Lexy Timms:
Chapter 1
Justin
I always took pride in my work, no matter what it was. I think the quality of my labor was always best exhibited whenever I turned to my principles and integrity. I never did things half-assed, and I always aim for perfection. Some people consider perfectionists—or those striving to be perfectionists—annoying and difficult to work with.
I don’t like to boast, which is why I think people don’t mind working with me. In most cases, people tend to like me. I make friends easily, but I’m not easy. I don’t let just anyone in. I always look for people who have good moral character and integrity. Even when I meet people who aren’t exactly “model humans,” I still try to maintain my humanity and not let them negatively affect me.
Ironically, I’m sometimes paid to take pictures of models. Growing up, I was always fascinated by modeling, although I’m not quite sure why. Like anyone, I found certain models attractive, but it wasn’t just that. I felt that, when exhibited properly, a captured moment of the right model wasn’t just something to ogle or look at with lewd thoughts; it could also be art.
In my twenty-nine years of life (thirty in four months) and my ten years of photography experience, I rarely captured true art. I usually liked the photos I took, but if I didn’t, they could easily be disposed of in less than a minute. Thrown away like they never happened. While I liked a lot of my photos, I could probably count out loud how many of my individual photos I considered art.
Whenever I applied for photography work, I would only use my art, even if it didn’t reflect what the job called for. My family and many of my friends didn’t understand a lot of my submission choices, but I did. If a client appreciated what kind of photographer I wanted to be and they hired me for it, I knew we’d be a good fit.
Unfortunately, the majority of models I photographed were mostly social-media models, girls or women who were going for ‘likes’ and ‘shares,’ hoping they would morph into a blossoming career. Those photos helped get my name out there, but it wasn’t usually in the direction I wanted. Plus, those jobs don’t pay much. The real money was in events and no events paid the bills more than an expensive wedding.
I was looking over some photos I took for a wedding in Maplewood earlier that week. Sometimes the weddings were a far drive away, but Maplewood was a fairly short distance from my apartment in nearby Newark. I live in New Jersey and I’m not afraid to say it.
Wedding season was usually during the spring and summer months. Starting in March, I worked a different wedding almost every week. It was now early June and there didn’t appear to be an end in sight. I had another wedding scheduled for the end of the month and I was expecting to a call soon asking for my services sometime in the next week or two. I was tired of the repetition, but weddings gave me a steady income.
I was editing the wedding photos on my computer. My music playlist was house & techno and my snack a homemade strawberry-banana smoothie. Fortunately, every family whose wedding I worked was happy and willing to let me use my digital Canon for their momentous occasion. It was good for them, because they got their photos back quicker and easier. It was also good for me, because I could save my actual film for photographic opportunities that I wanted to take purely for myself.
I invited my friend Grant over for drinks and darts that weekend, but he was visiting family, so I invited him over tonight. I hoped to be finished editing the photos before he came over, but it was a foolish hope. I had a sense of urgency, but I had until Sunday to complete my task, so I wasn’t going to put off hanging with my best friend for something that could wait. I didn’t procrastinate, but I did prioritize.
I heard a loud knocking on my door, recognizing the beat as Grant’s usual knock.
“It’s open!” I called out.
He let himself in as I pushed myself out of my computer chair. Before heading toward the door, I went for the fridge. He entered, wearing his custom-made suit he always wore for work, looking chipper and eager to drink.
“What’s going down, Justin?” he asked as he hung up his jacket.
“Not much, man,” I replied, grabbing a Corona for me and a Coors for him. “Editing those photos from the wedding I shot last weekend.”
“Hot wife or hog wife?” Grant asked.
I smirked and rolled my eyes. “That’s not very nice.”
“So, the fat one, then?” he surmised.
He took the Coors and shook my hand. We clinked our bottles together and took a few swigs of beer. He approached my computer screen, glancing at the wedding photos. He analyzed the wife, making rude noises under his breath.
“Oh boy,” he remarked. “She’s… probably got an awesome personality. Please tell me your camera added on like thirty pounds.”
“Grant, chill out, man,” I said. The bride wasn’t beautiful-attractive, but Grant’s insults were harsh.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “She’s not here! Just because her picture is up doesn’t mean she can hear us say bad… Wait, that might not be a bad plot for a horror movie.”
“Come on, man,” I urged politely.
“Come on, what? She’s fat! I’m not being mean—I’m just observing. She’s huge.”
“Do you have to be a dick about it?” I asked him. “So, she’s a little overweight. Who cares?”
“Overweight?” he flippantly asked. “A little?”
“I’m sorry not every woman can be in as good of shape as you,” I said. “You know, you weren’t always the pillar of health you are today, Mr. Extra-Large.”
Grant bit his lip, avoiding my eyes and drinking more of his Coors. Grant used to be overweight through high school and college. I liked to remind him of that to keep him in check whenever he got too insulting toward bigger women or men. In truth, I wasn’t usually attracted to bigger women either, but I didn’t advertise that fact by demeaning every overweight woman I saw.
“You didn’t like it when girls called you fat in college, did you?” I asked him.
“I didn’t give a shit what girls thought of me in school,” he snapped.
“That’s not how I remember it,” I said with a raise of my eyebrows.
“Well, even so…” He sipped his beer and changed the subject. “Are you making some good bank with these weddings yet? Or, are you still accepting those ghetto wages?”
The ‘ghetto wages’ he was referring to were the small amount of money I accepted for these jobs. Since I wasn’t technically a ‘professional photographer’ (I didn’t go to school or take classes), I wasn’t in a position to ask for some of the truly outrageous amounts that some photography companies charged. I wasn’t someone who wanted a ludicrous sum in the first place, but I was anxiously waiting for the day when I would feel confident enough to ask for what I deserved. I wasn’t sure when that day would come, but until then, I was content with offering some of the lowest prices in New Jersey. I felt like I was gaining a reputation as someone who offered great content for a great price. Not everyone understood it, but I was fine with paying my dues.
“I’m doing pretty good,” I replied. “It pays the rent and then some.”
Since I’d been getting steady photography work, I was able to abandon the small one-bedroom place I used to live in and upgrade to a spacious two-bedroom in the same complex. It was slowly evolving into the kind of bachelor pad that I wanted for many years, complete with a dartboard & pool table, posters of my favorite photographs and movie, a wide assortment of entertainment options, and countless bottles of liquor.
“You pay off all your debt yet?” he asked me.
“All my camera and lighting equipment has been paid for,” I answered. “Student loans on the other hand…”
“Hey, don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m still paying off my student loans and I actually make money.”
“I make money!” I said.
“Right, but I make enough to pay the bills and live my life,” he retorted. “All you’re doing is work, my friend. When’s the last time you actually had some fun?”
“I like what I do, Grant,” I replied. “Photography is my passion. Plus, the income I earn gives me the ability to go out into the world and pursue my career goals.”
“Which are?” he asked.
“Taking pictures that tell a story,” I said. “Something that can communicate to an audience. Something that another aspiring photographer might hang up on their wall.”
“Oh, I forget, you’re an artist,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “You’ve been shooting these weddings for a while though. Seems like that’s all you’re doing these days.”
“I’m taking a lot of other photos, man,” I said, taking a handful of darts and proceeding to toss them at my dartboard. “Like I said, the weddings just keep me afloat.”
“I just don’t want you to keep doing something you’ll regret,” he said. “Remember how you spent six years getting your Master’s in Accounting and then decided to take photos of Instagram models, instead?”
My friends and family often criticized me about my life choices. I went to college with Grant (which is how we met), where we each earned a Master’s degree in Accounting. He went off to work for a few accounting firms before finally settling at Franklin, Wheeler & Associates, an accounting firm whose ladder he was quickly ascending. He raved about his job so often that it could sometimes overtake an entire conversation. The only thing I used my degree for was as an additional wall decoration in my bedroom. I spent a large amount of my money (and my parent’s money) on my education and had nothing to show for it. I wasn’t disappointed, because I was genuinely happy with my life and my job. But, I’m not sure how much my loved ones believed me.
“Just saying, bro,” he continued. “You’re closer to thirty than twenty-nine. I just turned thirty myself and let me tell you, I’d be stressing out if I didn’t have my life in order.”
“My life is in order,” I said defensively, throwing a dart that nearly hit the bullseye. “A lot of this stuff is networking, anyway. It’s about meeting the right people. Once I meet the right people, I’ll be golden.”
“The job at Franklin & Wheeler is still yours, if you want it,” he said invitingly. When I turned down the firm twice, Grant began to act as their unofficial proxy, hoping that I would eventually go into accounting with him like we once planned to do.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said firmly. “I don’t need to become the big accountant. That’s your job! Make them rename it ‘Grant Hayden & Associates.’”
“It’ll take a long time for that time to happen,” he chuckled. “But, you gotta start now, before too much time passes and you’re behind in the game.”
“Grant, I’m not going to be an accountant,” I said.
“Hey, just figured I’d keep offering until you see reason,” he said, going to the dartboard and pulling out my throws and adding up my score. “What is that- 82? Are we playing 301?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. ‘301’ was a dart game we played a lot at home and at bars, where you would try and achieve the exact score of 301 points. “Bullseye is 50. Double for a double-bullseye?”
“Ah, shit, I’m going to win in like five minutes,” he said with a cocky grin. He threw three darts, none of them hitting the center. “Got any new girls?”
“Not really,” I answered truthfully.
“What happened with that one chick we met at Stoklasa’s?” he asked.
‘Stoklasa’s American Tap’ was the name of a place nearby that offered a wide selection of American alcohol and bar food that you couldn’t get at most other places. Usually, either Grant or myself (or both of us) would try and pick up women whenever we went out. I’d been hooking up with a woman I met there on-and-off for about two months, but one day we just stopped talking to each other.
It seemed like an organic parting. I wasn’t too upset by it.
“Haven’t seen her in a while,” I said.
“That girl had legs for days,” he said. “You mind if I hit her up?”
“Be my guest,” I said laughing. I received an email notification on my phone. I glanced at the preview of the email that appeared on my screen. It was from Donnie T. Agency, a small but well-known modeling agency in New York. It was a query for my services. Excitedly, I unlocked my phone and skimmed the email.
“What’s up?” Grant asked me. “Are you pulling up her number for me?”
“Huh- no,” I said, rereading the email repeatedly to ensure I read it correctly. “Just got an incredible email. That’s what I call impeccable fucking timing.”
“What?”
“The email is from the Donnie T. Agency,” I replied. “Have you heard of them?”
“Sounds familiar… are they in Jersey?”
“Nah, their offices and studio is in New York- about a forty-five-minute drive from here without traffic.”
“Oh shit, that’s a long way to go for work,” he said.
“True, but its Donnie T.,” I said. “They’re a growing agency. A few of the models I’ve shot have talked about wanting to be represented by them. The pay is stellar.”
“Nice! When’s the gig?”
“Next Saturday,” I answered. “Looks like an all-day shoot. ‘May be needed following Sunday, same pay.’”
“What would you be doing?” he asked. “Shooting models?”
“Affirmative,” I replied. “Dude, this is a great opportunity.”
“No kidding!” he said. “This is a perfect opportunity to bring home some models! Bring two: one for me, one for you! No. Bring more than two. The more the merrier! Tell them you want to arrange a ‘private photoshoot’ at your place.”
I laughed, already replying with an eager ‘yes’ to Donnie T’s email.
“Not a bad idea,” I said.
