The Distance Between Us

clothed I ask, “Xander, is this your camera or the photographer’s?”
    “It’s mine.”
    “Do you think I can borrow it for a few days?”
    “Of course. For what?”
    “I have a porcelain doll fetish. Thought I could take some high-quality pictures of them.”
    He shakes his head. “And let’s try that again. For what?”
    “I kind of like the website idea. Maybe it’s time our store has one.” It could possibly save us from financial ruin.
    “Hmm. That doesn’t sound like the best way to show your mom you have no interest in the store.”
    I shrug. “I’ll just set it up and have her run it. Bring her into the modern world.” Maybe a website could eventually take the place of me. People could place their own orders, we could make more money . . . then my mom could afford to hire a part-time employee. I try not to get my hopes up, because it could take months, but I like the idea.
    He doesn’t answer but takes the camera from me and nods his head toward the door, behind which his father exists. How bad is this going to look when we walk out there, Xander fully changed?
    He must sense my hesitation because he says, “I don’t care what he thinks, Caymen.”
    Of course he doesn’t care what he thinks. He probably wants his dad to think something is going on between the two of us.
    “Whatever.” I open the door and try to walk out as casually as possible. My face doesn’t get the memo and blushes. His dad is still studying the shots on the screen in the corner.
    I turn back to Xander, wondering where to go. He’s holding the camera up and fires off a shot. I put up my hand. “Don’t.”
    “Come on, you have to be on the other end of the camera now. I have to see if modeling is something you’d want to do.”
    “Not even a possibility.”
    “With those eyes?” He shoots another picture. “It is definitely a possibility.”
    It may be my imagination, but he seems extra flirty. I swallow the lump in my throat. “These eyes are about to commit redrum.”
    He laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh, confirming my suspicion that he’s doing this all for his dad’s benefit. “Come on, Caymen, loosen up,” he says quoting me.
    I cross my arms and glare at him. He takes one more shot with a laugh and then walks to the hutch, puts the camera in its case and then hands it to me. “Go crazy with your dolls.”
    “Thanks.”
    Xander’s focus changes to something over my shoulder. When I turn around I’m surprised to see his dad behind me. “I thought you were here with the crew. I didn’t realize you were one of my son’s friends.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Blaine Spence.”
    I take his hand. “Caymen Meyers,” I barely choke out. I’m still shocked he wanted to meet me at all. Did he want the camera back?
    “Good to meet you,” he says, seeming very sincere. Was he using reverse psychology on his son? Then he turns to Xander. “Alexander, a lot of those pictures are great.”
    Xander’s face instantly hardens. “Good. So I’m done, then.”
    “I’d like you to work with the designer on a web layout and flyer.”
    “I don’t have a lot of time for that, what with school and stuff, but maybe I can find some time in a few weeks.” He puts a hand on my lower back as if trying to direct me out of the room fast, and I jump in surprise but then let him guide me toward the door.
    “Nice to meet you,” I call behind me.
    “Alexander.”
    He stops. “Yeah?”
    “Yes.” Mr. Spence emphasizes the s on the word, and Xander’s jaw tenses.
    “Yes?” Xander emphasizes the s even more.
    “Your mother’s benefit is in four weeks. Your presence is required. And you will have the flyers ready for that night.”
    We step out into the hall, and Xander says, “I hope you’re taking notes. I’m so much better at pissing off my family than you are.”
    “I’m taking notes.” Find the last person on earth my mom (or in his case, dad) would want me to date and pretend to be dating him. Of course, my mom would actually have to know about it. But that’s where we differ. I’m not using Xander. “Extensive notes. When my mom tells me to do something”—I point over my shoulder to the door we just exited—“I do it and pretend to be mad about it.”
    “So rude.” He shoots me a half-smile, which I’m angry about because I thought that bit of sarcasm was at least worth a full smile.
    He hits the Down button on the wall next to the elevator. “So, photography?