Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1)

by Claire Kingsley

  "She's fine." He rubs the back of his neck. "She, um, she calls me a lot."

  My mouth drops open a little and I swear my heart literally melts inside my chest. It isn’t what Ryan said, but how he said it. He has this sweet, almost apologetic smile, and his tone is so … protective.

  "That's nice," I say. "She probably missed having you around. She must have been ecstatic when you moved back to the beach."

  "You have no idea," he says. "I crashed at my parents’ house when I first got into town, and it took all of twenty-four hours for her to try to convince her neighbors to move so I could buy the house next door."

  I laugh. I remember Mrs. Jacobsen as a sweet lady who talks a lot. I can just imagine her knocking on her neighbor's door, offering to have her son buy the place. "Something you probably found out about later," I say.

  "Exactly."

  "Sort of how we ended up here?" I say, gesturing to the gallery.

  "Oh, you mean you didn't volunteer for this out of the goodness of your heart?"

  I laugh again. "Not quite. My mom likes to volunteer me for things."

  "You got voluntold too?" he asks.

  "Yes!" Oh my god, he used my word. "She swears that isn't a word, but I'm pretty sure in the dictionary under voluntold, there's a picture of my mom with that look on her face."

  "What, this one?" Ryan widens his eyes and plasters on an exaggerated smile. "But honey, this will be a great opportunity," he says in a high-pitched voice. "Besides, it means so much to the community."

  I cover my mouth, laughing so hard my shoulders shake. "Were you in my kitchen the other day? Because that is my mom, spot on. Just add a little bit of barely concealed judgment and you've got it."

  "I get that, too," he says and his smile fades a little.

  I want to ask what he means, but the look on his face holds me back. "So what's it like, coming back here after … where did you live before?"

  "L.A. Honestly, I left Jetty Beach thinking I'd never come back, except to visit my parents once in a while. This place seemed so small and backward." He shrugs again, the little line between his eyes standing out. Holy shit, that look is adorable. "Turns out city life wasn't what I thought it would be."

  There’s something behind his eyes, a pain I can almost feel. It makes me want to press myself against him and soothe all his hurts, whatever they are.

  "And you're happier here?" I say. I realize there’s too much skepticism in my voice because a flash of defensiveness crosses his face. Damn it, I didn’t mean to insult him. Again.

  "A lot, actually," he says.

  My phone rings. I think about ignoring it, but it is business hours and technically, I am supposed to be working. "Oh, crap. Sorry, it's my boss." I tap the screen to answer. "Hi Sandra."

  "Nicole, where did you put the box of menus for the luncheon?" Sandra asks. She sounds annoyed.

  "They're in the workroom, on the bottom shelf. Right next to the copier."

  "Oh," she says. "Right. Here they are. Thanks."

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I let out a heavy sigh.

  "Work issues?" Ryan asks.

  "Sort of," I say. "Nothing major."

  "So you're, what, working remotely? How does that work?" he asks.

  Not very well, as it turns out. "Well, keeping up on emails and everything is easy enough. It wouldn't work long-term, but most of what I do, outside of an actual event day, is in the office. I spend the majority of my time coordinating with vendors and keeping track of details. I can do those things from anywhere."

  "What exactly do you do?"

  "We do event planning and PR stuff mostly," I say.

  "Do you like your job?" he asks.

  Such an innocent, reasonable question. Yet it sends a surge of fear worming its way through my belly. Of course I like my job. It makes me look properly successful. My new title will look fabulous on my resume. But I still don’t believe my own words when I say, "Yeah, I love my job. It's an amazing opportunity."

  I’m not sure if Ryan believes me either.

  "Why are we having the festival here, anyway?" I ask, wanting to change the subject. "This place is a mess. Maybe with some funding it could be nice again. But it's so dingy and sad. An art festival is supposed to be lively and full of energy."

  "Sure, but it's tradition," Ryan says. "This is like, the hub of Jetty Beach's art scene."

  "Art scene?" I say. "This is Jetty Beach, not some hip city with an artist's quarter."

  "I know, it isn't much," he says. "But the locals love this place, and so do visitors. It's quirky."

  I put my hands on my hips and look around again. I don’t know if quirky is the word I would use. Shabby, maybe? Definitely without the chic.

  "No one is really running the gallery right now, so I think we can make a few changes," Ryan says. "We could move things around, maybe even put a fresh coat of paint on the walls. And I have some lighting that will help a lot. It's too dim in here, and so much of displaying a piece of art is getting the lighting right."

  I’m still skeptical, but Ryan sounds like he knows what he’s doing. "All right, I suppose we can try to spruce the place up a bit."

  "I have the lights up at my place," he says. "If you want to follow me out there, I could give them to you."

  I blink in surprise. Strictly speaking, we don’t need the lights today. Ryan can bring them the next time he comes into town. But for reasons I cannot fathom, I find myself saying, "Sure, that sounds great," before I have a chance to even think.

  He looks a little stunned himself. Is he surprised I said yes, or surprised he just asked me to come to his house? I follow him outside into the wind. The rain has slacked off a little, but my hair blows around my face. I get into my car and try to smooth it down, but it isn’t going to cooperate. I grab a clip from my purse, twist my hair a bit, and pin it up. Ryan glances over at me from the driver's seat of his car. I nod and give him a thumbs up.

  Oh my god, Nicole, what was that? I'm so lame.

  I follow him through the town entrance, to the highway that leads north. My heart beats a little too quickly and butterflies dance in my belly.

  This is fine. Today wasn't a date, and he isn't inviting you up to his place. You're just going to pick up some lights.

  I’m not sure if I want that to be true, or not.

  The old church is set well away from the road, down a long gravel driveway. I can hear the waves crashing as soon as I open the car door. The building itself is weathered gray with white trim. A covered front porch leads to double doors in front, and the roof slopes to a high peak in the center. There’s no longer a cross or any sort of religious adornment on the outside. It hasn’t been used as a church since well before my lifetime. Yet it still retains its character, a quaintness that speaks of a simpler time.

  Ryan gets out of his car and pauses, looking up at the old building. He clearly has an affection for the place—the half-smile on his face tells me that. The wind blows, chilling me to the bone. It’s cold this close to the beach. I wrap my cardigan tighter and follow Ryan to the front door.

  "Well, this is it," he says, ushering me in.

  Light streams in through tall windows with detailed wood trim. Their pointed tops make them almost look medieval, at least to my eyes. Hardwood floors gleam and the room is filled with a haphazard arrangement of furniture. A burgundy velvet chaise sits next to a lush leather armchair. A tall, freestanding mirror with a dark wood frame stands near a cream-colored couch accented with blue throw pillows. There are a few side tables that look like refinished antiques, and a number of decorative pots and urns, but none of it seems to be placed in any sort of order. Along the walls, large sheets of beige canvas cover what appears to be more furniture. Photographer's lights and black umbrellas with reflective white centers, all mounted on stands, crowd around the jumbled display.

  "Sorry," Ryan says. "I was moving things around after my last shoot, so the studio is a mess."

  "T
hat's okay," I say. "It's beautiful."

  He looks around, a proud smile on his face. "Thanks. It was a disaster when I bought it. You wouldn't have recognized it. There were holes in the walls, and the floor looked terrible. It's taken a lot of work, but it's definitely come together."

  I wander over to one of the windows. It reveals a breathtaking view of the beach. The church sits on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Rolling dunes peppered with tall grasses give way to the gray sand of the beach, stretching in both directions. Waves crash against the sand, foamy white water rolling back and forth in a steady rhythm.

  "This is amazing," I say.

  Ryan moves in behind me, his closeness making my back tingle. "Yeah, the view is incredible. It's almost as good as the lighting in here."

  I stand, rooted to the spot, suddenly afraid to turn around. Ryan is so close I can smell him. His scent is fresh and clean, like a breeze blowing through the woods on a spring day. Jason took to wearing cologne. My stomach turns a little as I think about it. He was probably trying to mask the smell of the other woman. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with Ryan's scent.

  My heart thunders in my chest. I’m sure he can hear it. I turn, suddenly desperate for something to break the tension.

  Boobs catch my eye.

  Well, doesn't that just break the spell?

  The walls on either side of the front door are lined with framed photographs. The first one I notice has a woman in a vintage-style bikini, huge boobs barely contained by navy and white polka-dots. Her hair and makeup are done pinup style, like someone from the forties. I walk across the room to get a closer look. She’s leaning against the hood of an old car, her back arched, legs a mile long ending in hot red stilettos.

  "Wow," I say. "Is this yours?"

  "It is," Ryan says.

  I glance at the other photographs. They’re all scantily clad women in various provocative poses. Another looks kind of vintage like the first one, the girl in a sexy version of a sailor outfit, complete with a little cap on her head. A more modern-looking woman looks backward over her shoulder, the lines of her waist extending to lush hips, her body only covered by a thin wisp of fabric she holds up with one hand. The light is soft against her olive skin, and her hair hangs down over her shoulder in gentle waves. A third is of a woman lying on the burgundy velvet chaise I noticed in the studio. Somehow she makes the long sequined gown she’s wearing look more erotic than the bikinis and lingerie on the women in the other photos. Her arm drapes carelessly over her forehead and her other hand teases near her groin. Voluminous auburn hair spreads out over the back of the chaise, and her red lips stand out against pale skin.

  "These are gorgeous," I say, and I mean it. I was taken aback at first, but there’s nothing trashy about these photos. They’re sexual, sure, but they don’t strike me as photos designed only for men to jack off to. The women look beautiful, sensual rather than raunchy.

  "You like them?" Ryan asks. He stands with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted just a bit to the right. His eyes meet mine. "I was a little worried."

  "Why?"

  He shrugs. "Not everyone understands what I do."

  "Is this, um…" I pause, not quite sure how to phrase my question. "Is this the type of photography you do?"

  "Mostly, yeah," he says. "I've done lingerie lines, and a lot of portfolio shots for models. I also do private boudoir sessions."

  "Boudoir? Like, sexy photos women give their husbands?" I ask.

  "Exactly," he says. "Do you … do you want to see some?"

  "Sure."

  He brings out a thick leather-bound book and nods toward the couch. I sit down next to him and he opens the book in his lap. The first photo is a woman splayed out on a bed, wearing nothing but a white sheet. Her skin looks flawless, but she isn’t covered in tons of makeup. Thick, blond hair flows out behind her, and the whole thing looks … it looks gorgeous. Like the photos on his wall, it’s highly charged with sexuality, but not the least bit trashy.

  He slowly flips through more pages. Some women wear lingerie, others appear to be nude, strategically covered by a sheet. They are of varying ages. One woman is silver-haired, with wrinkles and folds in her skin, but somehow he made her look just as sensual as the younger women.

  "This isn't what I was thinking when you said boudoir photos," I say, lingering over a photograph of a woman in a man's shirt and tie. "I would never have guessed they could be so classy. You've even done some in black and white. These are incredible."

  "You were picturing red and black corsets with lots of lace and bad makeup?" he asks.

  "Yeah, kinda."

  He turns the page again, this time to a woman in a black teddy. It could be in a catalog. "I get paid a lot more to shoot models, but these are my favorite shoots by far. I love helping women bring out their inner goddess."

  Oh, holy shit. Is he serious right now?

  "Wow, you definitely deliver," I say, trying to keep my voice from sounding breathy. "How did you get into doing this? Did you just wake up one day and think, hey, I'd like to take photos of half-naked women and make them look like goddesses?"

  Ryan chuckles. "Not quite. I went to art school and spent a lot of time taking pictures of trees and farmland and stuff. There's a lot of beauty in nature, but I've always been drawn to people. Well, women in particular. After graduating I did a stint taking photos for a … certain kind of website."

  "Porn?" I ask.

  "Yeah, it was definitely porn. Really raunchy stuff, but it paid the bills."

  I’m not quite sure what to make of that. What must his family think? If he even told them. "Wow. That must have been … interesting."

  "You'd think it would be the perfect gig for a twenty-two-year-old guy, but honestly, it was awful," he says. "There was no emotion in any of it. Just … hell, I don't even want to tell you. Let's just say I saw things that year that I will never be able to unsee."

  "So you weren't bringing home your subjects and acting out the photos?" I say, nudging him with my elbow.

  "No," he says with a laugh, and stands up. He puts the book back on a shelf. "No, I got out of that job as soon as I could. Sometimes I feel like all the showers in the world won't be enough to wash off the ick."

  "How did you go from porn to, well, sexy but not porn?" I ask.

  One side of his mouth turns up in a grin. "Luck, mostly. I took a job as a janitor at this old mansion just to keep a roof over my head. It used to be someone's home, but now it's rented out for weddings and stuff. One day this well-known photographer came in to scout out the space for a shoot. I was just leaving from working all night, but I recognized him and worked up the nerve to introduce myself. I ended up showing him around the grounds—pointed out all the best places to shoot, and where the sun would be at different times of day and so forth. I guess he was impressed because he started hiring me to help with some of his clients. He taught me a lot. I found I had a good eye for women's bodies—for capturing their sensuality. Eventually clients started asking for me specifically. I contracted out to some ad agencies and designers, and built up a client list.”

  "And now you're here," I say. "This is a far cry from L.A."

  "Thank goodness for that," he says. "Fortunately, a lot of my clients are willing to come here for me to shoot them. That's why I bought the church. The unique architecture is a selling point. My clients love it. Plus, I can travel when I need to."

  I want to ask him why he moved back to the beach. It seems like he had a promising career. What would have brought him back here?

  "So, the lights are over here," Ryan says, before I can ask any more questions.

  I glance one more time at Ryan's photos, imagining him talking the women through their photo shoots. How did he get them to look so … stirring? The woman on the chaise looks like she might be getting ready to have an orgasm. She doesn’t have an exaggerated oh-baby-do-it-now face—she looks relaxed, her eyelids fluttering closed, her lips parted, like she’s experiencing s
ublime bliss. Did Ryan do that? Or is she simply an experienced model who knows how to put on the right expression?

  I've never been a switch hitter, but the woman's expression and the languid drape of her arms makes my heart beat faster. I tear my gaze away, not wanting to make my face turn red. It’s probably too late for that. Thankfully Ryan's studio is chilly, or it would be worse. I follow him through a doorway on the other side of the room, resisting the urge to fan myself as I walk.

  A rectangular room, clearly his living space, opens up. The ceiling is high, but flat instead of pitched. Another window has an equally spectacular view of the beach. There’s a little kitchen area along one side, and he has a couch and armchair facing a TV mounted to the wall. But the bulk of the room is dominated by a huge king sized bed. In true guy fashion, it’s plain, with just a green comforter and a couple of pillows, all slightly askew.

  I arch an eyebrow as I look at the bed. "What family do you share that with?"

  His eyes dart to the bed and he gives me that lopsided smile again. For half a second, I imagine lying in the center of that huge bed, Ryan crawling on top of me.

  "I like my space when I sleep," he says.

  I clear my throat, suddenly wishing I hadn't called attention to the bed.

  Ryan grabs what looks like a black suitcase. "These are the lights. They're similar to the ones out in the studio, but they're meant to be portable."

  "Great, that will be perfect."

  He hesitates, his eyes on my face. A tingle runs down my spine.

  Suddenly even more conscious of the bed, I duck through the doorway back into the studio. My brain tells me to head for the front door, but I move to one of the windows instead. What am I doing, lingering here?

  I hear him set down the black case, and he moves to stand behind me.

  "Beautiful." His voice is quiet—soft and low.

  "It is," I say. "I can see why you wanted this place."

  "Mm hmm." He murmurs something I can’t quite make out.

  I turn to ask him what he said, but he’s standing so close, the words flee before I can speak. His gaze is intense, and the line between his eyes furrow.