Page 82 of Error Handling

“Indirect sunlight is better.”

“You da boss.”

“Huh?”

“You. Da. Boss.”

“Yes, I am,” he says. “And I enjoy my power. So, stand over there.” He points to a spot by the fence.

“I’m serious. You’re going to have to tell me how to pose. Just act like I’m a bendable Barbie.”

Christopher talks me through the motions, tells me where to place my hands, how to tilt my head, whether to smile or look serious. After what seems like five hundred pictures, he pulls his camera off the tripod and looks at the view finder.

Correction. He scowls at the view finder.

Nerves tickle my stomach again. “Do I look bad?”

“No. I’m just not happy with how the fountain is framing you. Were you a climber when you were a toddler?”

“I’m not climbing that fountain.”

“I want you to sit on the ledge.”

“Is that legal?”

“Sure.”

I eye the area surrounding the fountain. “No one else is inside the fence.”

“No one else is adventurous. Here, I’ll help you.” He offers his hand as a step.

“I got it. I got it.” I swipe his hand away like we’re an old married couple. “You know, this would be a lot easier if I was taller.” I uncomfortably straddle the fence.

Christopher grabs my calf. I squeal and dismount on the opposite side.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Christopher says.

With both feet firmly on the bricks, I rub my adductors. “Do photographers carry liability insurance?”

“Not weekend hacks like me.”

“You about knocked me over.”

“I would have caught you.”

I swipe my eyes across Christopher’s broad shoulders. He has the muscle to catch all one hundred and thirty pounds of me.

Why am I thinking about Christopher’s shoulders? This isn’t a date. Chris Butcher—myChris (even though we aren’t committed in any sense of the word)—caught me at the hardware store.

Christopher grabs the top of the fence and clears it in a single leap.

“Were you a gymnast?” I ask.

He shrugs. “A long time ago.”

That explains his muscles.

“Do you still go to the gym or are those muscles left over from the pommel horse?”