Fuck, she smells good. Like some kind of spicy flower.
"Look," she says simply, extending her camera so I can see. She's standing in front of me and slightly to the side, and I'm realizing now she's way taller than I thought she was. I'm six feet tall, and she's only a few inches shorter than me.
For a moment, I'm distracted by her closeness. Not only is her hair blowing in my face, but her flannel button-up has slipped off one shoulder, which means her smooth skin and the line of her neck are directly in front of me.
I feel my dick twitch in my jeans.
When she looks over her shoulder at me to see what I think of the shot, I realize she's showing me a picture. I hurriedly snap my attention to the camera.
And then suck in a breath of surprise.
"Holy shit," I breathe, reaching for the camera so I can pull it closer. "That's the shot you just took?”
The look of pure satisfaction on her face couldn’t be more obvious.
The picture is… breath-taking. It looks like a picture you'd see in a National Geographic magazine, or like something that might win a photography competition.
It's a picture of Mrs. Jesus, yeah, but it's so much more than that. It's not just that the camera settings are so spot-on that the colors and focus of the picture are better than anything the human eye can see—it’s that the angle of the picture makes the woman the focal point, surrounded by the college students. And this girl has somehow made it look like they're worshipping the old kook.
The figures of the students are slightly blurred, which means their mocking expressions in real life aren't visible. Instead, all you can see is their hyper-focus on the woman in the center. And through the quality of the camera and the talent of the photographer, you get a clear vision of who she really is. You can see the fire in her eyes and the spittle flying from her lips, and the clenching of her hands on the sign she's holding. You canfeelthe bat-shit passion of the old woman.
"I was trying to get the angle right so it would feel like she's looking down at them," the girl explains, the proud smile never leaving her face. "I had to wait for the moment when the students parted enough to let me get the shot."
I'm still speechless, standing there with my mouth open and my attention stuck on the camera. "This is… incredible. Are you a photographer?"
My attention finally snaps back to the sexy brunette when I hear her chuckle. She steps away slightly and turns so she's facing me, although her focus is back on her machine.
"And here I was, hoping you'd be smarter than you are pretty," she muses. "Although, in your defense, you probably would've had to be a genius by that ratio."
I can only blink at her for a moment. "I can't tell if you just called me hot or stupid."
She glances up at me with a grin. "It's whatever you want it to mean, pretty boy."
Sign me the fuck up. I've met my dream girl.
"I just meant, are you a professional photographer?" I clarify. "Or are you just doing this for fun? Because if this is just a hobby, you might be in the wrong profession."
She finally gives me her full attention, lowering her camera to hang from the lanyard around her neck. She gives me a blatant once-over, before reaching into the bag that's slung over her shoulder and pulling out a weed pen. She slips it between her lips and pulls, then says on a light puff of smoke, "Don't worry, I don't like to do things I'm good at for free.”
Before I can react tothat, she turns and walks toward a nearby bench. I'm left staring after her in shock, until she peeks over her shoulder and gives me a subtle nod to follow her.
I'm not even a little bit ashamed to admit that I rush to catch up.
"You're not a student here, are you?" I ask as she takes a seat. I sit down next to her, willing some of my usual cockiness back into my stance as I stretch an arm across the back of the bench.
She starts to adjust some of the settings on her camera. "What gave me away? The lack of a backpack or lack of Temple gear?"
Both are true, but instead I answer, "More like the lack of fucks you give. Most college students are either unsure of themselves or going through an identity crisis. You're neither."
That catches her attention enough that she peeks at me again, a little longer this time. "You're not either of those yourself. Yet you scream college boy."
"Yeah, but that's because I'm not your typical college boy," I quip.
Now it's her turn to snort, this time turning back to her camera. "The arrogance is definitely college boy-level. You're probably, what, a senior? Old enough to drink and old enough to know who you are. But not older than twenty-two because you don't look like the fifth-year senior type. Too driven and too focused not to have a solid life plan in front of you. Let me guess, business major?"
My mouth quirks in amusement. "That's a pretty easy guess. Try for something that's not obvious."
She shrugs. "And you're obviously not a frat boy, though you're not nerdy enough to have school as your only focus. So that means you have a hobby where all your friends are. Likely a sport, by the looks of the muscles on your muscles." I couldn’t stop grinning at that, even if I wanted to. "My guess would be MMA."