But he owed me. I moved in to capture his profile. He was the one who’d ruined my perfect shot, gone in a flash of an instant.
“I hate having my picture taken,” he confessed, his steady gaze meeting mine through the viewfinder.
Damn it if I didn’t see a hairline crack of vulnerability when he self-consciously rubbed his nose. His beakish nose. A flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks. Guilt flushed mine. I lowered my camera. I could empathize. When I was in second grade, my feet sprouted to women’s size eights, which was traumatic enough since I kept tripping over them. I didn’t need my older brothers to call me Bigfoot or joke that I had mistakenly swallowed one of Jack’s magic beans to make me more self-conscious than I already was.
“I wasn’t taking a picture of you,” I said before adding guiltily, “per se.”
“Really.”
I held my camera in front of my chest. “It’s for my blog.”
“A blog? Don’t you need some kind of a release form? Or my consent?”
“I’ve never needed—”
“What blog?”
“TurnStyle.”
His expression began at startled and skidded toward fascinated. A girl could float away from an admiring look like that. The set of his lips softened. “No kidding.”
Him? A follower of street fashion? Not a chance. He was obviously about to feed me a line. Even though I’d pretty much heard them all, I leaned my weight back on one foot and waited. Impress me, O Color-Challenged One.
But then Quattro said unexpectedly, “My sister reads you. Religiously.”
“Really?” I frowned.
“Seriously. Kylie’s going to think I met a rock star. But I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into fashion.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, now acutely aware of the hole in my oversize sweater and the messy ponytail I’d tucked into a faded black baseball cap. While this was my uniform as a photographer, nothing flashy to draw attention to me, Quattro with his precious watch and designer sneakers would never understand that I had to go thrifting for my wardrobe. Trolling Goodwill and garage sales for clothes is much cooler when it’s a choice, not a necessity. So I’ve made it my personal mission to help girls see that style has nothing to do with the shopping mall. Not quite a save-the-world ambition, but it was mine. I tightened my grip on the camera.
Lifting my chin, I clarified, “Street fashion.”
“Okay.”
I appreciated that he didn’t ply me with a lame compliment, especially the one usually dropped on me: You should be in front of the camera, not behind it.
Instead, Quattro said, “Bacon maple bars.”
“What?”
“My modeling fee.” His expression was dead serious. “They’ve got to be on the menu wherever you’re taking me.”
“I don’t pay modeling fees. And gross, you don’t actually eat those, do you?”
“Well, yeah. Bacon. Maple syrup. Deep-fried dough. You know you want one. So…?”
“I’m not hunting for doughnuts with you.”
“Nothing to hunt. Voodoo Doughnut in Portland.”
Voodoo. A small smile played on my lips as I recognized the name. More accurately, I recognized their most infamous offering, shaped like a certain male appendage. Luckily, before I could point that out, Quattro jabbed his thumb southward and asked, “Want to go?”
“It’s a three-hour drive each way. Seriously?”
He looked stricken. “It’s not a drive. It’s a pilgrimage.”
Despite my best intentions, his words made me laugh again. Then I scrutinized him, really scrutinized him: His fashion taste was questionable, but he was funny, smart, and buff—his-muscles-had-muscles kind of buff. A sly whisper insinuated itself into my head: And best of all, he’s from out of town. Which meant there’d be no possibility of a relationship, no drama, no trauma. I was officially between boys. So what was wrong with a little harmless flirting?
“Afraid?” he challenged me, lifting his eyebrows.
That did it. No boy was calling me a boot-quaker. So I said, “You’re on. Voodoo Doughnut. Tomorrow.”
That ever-so-slight shake of his head like he’d just been tackled was almost worth six hours of my time. For the record: There is absolutely nothing so satisfying as throwing a confident guy for a loop. My answering grin was powered by delicious smugness, just the way I liked it. That is, until I heard Dad call from down the street, “Hey, Shana!”
Not now.
My grin disappeared. Dad and his canine sidekick, decked out in their matching Paradise Pest Control uniforms, strolled toward us. I cringed—not just at the sight of so much yardage of khaki polyester but at the thought that Quattro would be condescending. I’d seen plenty of that from a few of the wealthier parents, who snubbed Dad at school functions once they learned he was in pest control.
But Quattro shook Dad’s hand before scratching our dog in the soft spot behind her ears. Miracle of miracles, she didn’t shy from him the way she did with most men. Quattro asked, “Who’s this big guy?”