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“You looked pretty great in your tux, too,” she says. “You seemed really busy.”
“The gala is always a crazy night for me. All my clients are there at once, and with the presentations and endless handshakes, I barely get a second to breathe.”
She nods. “I wondered why they invited us. We did virtually no filming because they had the professional photographers and cameramen in. I guess it was just so that we could write the posts and answer questions about it more factually.” There’s a hint of something in her voice – not quite disappointment, but wistfulness.
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “The cameramen might capture the images, but it’s your work that keeps the brand alive weeks and months after the event ends. You are the ones who tell the story.”
She smiles again, this time with a quiet pride. “I do love it,” she says, her fingers absently tracing circles in my palm.
“You’ve got a great eye for it.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling sweetly.
“Those drink shots posted on Catalyst’s Instagram last Saturday – that was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yea. Why?” She eyes me with suspicion.
“I thought as much. They were brilliant. Clean framing, unique angles. I thought those had been professionally filmed.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Did you film them all yourself?”
“I did all the bar shots. Angela did the crowd shots and Carter was on interviews.”
“Lila, I’m serious. You’ve got a natural talent for seeing things differently. That’s not something you can teach – it’s why you’re so good at your job.”
She drops her head again, trying to hide the redness spreading across her cheeks as a smile takes over her face. She looks younger suddenly, a sweet innocence revealing itself on her features.
“I’ve never told anyone this…” she says, her voice dropping low. “But my dream is to go to film school, to study cinematography.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “You absolutely should. Manchester has lots of great film schools. You’d make a brilliant cinematographer.”
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes meeting mine with a sweet longing that tugs at my chest. “That’s really nice to hear.”
“I mean it. I’m not just saying it.”
She leans in and kisses me, her lips lingering on mine. I pull her closer, and she swings a leg over so that she’s straddling me. The world around us melts away, much as it had that night on the dance floor. The kiss is soft and slow, but it nevertheless sends the blood rushing straight down as I feel a twitch below my waistband.
When we finally part, her eyes mirror my desire just as deeply.
“I still can’t believe you kissed me that night,” I say, grazing my fingers down her cheek.
She laughs. “I blame the whiskey.”
Her laugh is light and musical. It wraps around me, filling my soul with a warmth I’m not used to.
“Whiskey or not, we wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” I say.
Her smile instantly drops as I realise the double meaning in my words. Shit.
She climbs off me, sitting back down on the cushion beside me.
“Sorry,” I say, wishing I could rewind the last ten seconds.
“You mean we wouldn’t be here, on the run from a murderous drug-dealing ex,” she says, her voice flat.
I reach for her leg, pulling her back to me. “Hey.”