“Lesbian,” Harper thankfully completed the sentence for her. She took a step forward, but this time Elise didn’t back away. She didn’t have anywhere to go but the balcony. Falling over the railing onto hard rocks suddenly sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan. “And yes,” she said. “I am a lesbian.”
“Well, I’m not,” Elise said so quickly that she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. Harper? Herself? Or perhaps the tiny little voice in her chest that had been screaming gibberish all those years. No, Elise decided. She was not a lesbian. “I want you to leave. Please,” she said as she headed forthe door and flung it open. “There’s nothing I can do to change the fact Stanley hired you as photographer, but I do ask you, out of respect for me, to stay out of my way for the duration of the show.”
Harper looked like she wanted to argue. She raised both of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows skyward. But then, to Elise’s huge relief, she gave the tiniest of nods, turned and walked out the front door.
Once the door shut, Elise leaned against it and allowed her legs to give out.
Chapter Seven
Harper wasn’t the sort of person who gave up easily. She’d waded hip-deep into a glacial river in Alaska, freezing so thoroughly she’d sustained ice burns on her legs, just to photograph a bear shaking raindrops from its fur. She’d dangled from a rickety pulley over a cliff in the Himalayas, watching a markhor’s horns catch the morning sun, convinced if she so much as blinked, she’d lose the shot forever. So she hadn’t blinked. Not until her eyes became so blurred that she had nearly strained her eye muscles.
Getting Elise to look at her the way she wanted—like whatever had happened between them ten years ago in the desert wasn’t just some drunken lapse in judgement or some inconvenient anomaly, but actual evidence that Elise was, in fact, deeply, undeniably into women and into her. That was the Mt. Everest Harper was willing to climb, and she’d do it without a harness and safety net if she had to.
“I want close-ups of Megan’s expressions when she tastes the wine,” Elise said, glancing down at her iPad and not at Harper. Eye contact, apparently, was a rarity. “This is the first group date, and it needs to be spectacular. The winery has graciously allowed access to the reserve terrace, so make sure the background stays clean. I don’t want to see any tourists trying to get their left pinky into a frame.”
Harper nodded even though Elise didn’t glance up to see it.
“And make sure you focus on body language,” she added. “I want to see who’s leaning toward Megan, and who’s fidgeting with the cheese knife while stealing glances at Megan. Be awareof who’s giving another contestant a dirty look.” Elise swiped her finger across the screen. “I want tension. I want delight. I want the people who are looking at our socials to give up their entire day just to watch the show.”
Harper wanted to snap back and say that she knew what she was doing. Which wasn’t true because, frankly, she was more accustomed to photographing a panther licking its bloody lips after a kill than some beauty queen pretending to eat a plate full of decadent desserts. Instead, she bit back her tongue.
“And don’t forget the candid shots while they’re wine tasting. If anyone spills wine on her fuchsia pink sundress, I want it on film. Drama plays well on reality TV.” She finally looked up, catching Harper’s eyes for what could have been five seconds if Harper was counting. But she was not. She was too busy staring into those blue eyes, searching for the two tiny black specks she had noticed one morning over an apple pie at Solitaire.
“Are you even listening?” Elise shot.
“Micro-moments,” Harper repeated. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
Elise’s face was so deadpan it could’ve been carved into the side of a Roman fountain. Then, with a tight inhale, she tucked her iPad to her chest and turned on her heel, and left.
Harper tried not to let it bother her. Although it was becoming increasingly harder not to be bothered. Her skin was only so thick. She exhaled and looked around.
Vino Con Vista sat tucked in the terraced hills above Tramonti. It was close enough to Positano for the contestants not to complain about the short bus ride, but far enough inland that the air smelled less like sea spray and more like warm earth.
The group date was set up at the upper tasting terrace, which was basically a long stone patio shaded by a pergola dripping with wisteria. A citrus orchard pressed up against theterrace and below it were rows and rows of leafy, sun-warmed vineyards, where the green was only broken by dark volcanic soil threading between the vines and the white and black dot of the winemaker’s sheepdog patrolling the grapes.
It wasn’t exactly the wilds of Patagonia, but even Harper had to admit it was gorgeous. Which was why it was the perfect spot to win Elise over.
Harper had thought about it all this morning after she was kicked out of Elise’s crew house like a mangy stray. All she had to do was convince Elise that a part of her, that she refused to even acknowledge, had feelings for women. Just that. Then, maybe Elise would realize that what happened between them all those years ago actually meant something. That they were meant for each other. A realization Harper had only come across a few months back when a truck had come around the corner and slammed into her car. Metal had crunched. Airbags had exploded, and although Harper had only sustained a mild concussion and a broken left middle finger, her life had flashed before her eyes. She’d seen the damp cobblestones of her childhood street in London, the tiny, whitewashed farmhouse in Cotswold where she spent summers with her grandparents, the clunky beige Minolta SRT-101 her father had bought her when she was ten, the first photograph she’d ever taken—a robin perched on the garden gate—and her first, real expedition: hiking the spine of the Andes to photograph the Andean condors. And then… Elise. Elise’s face, staring up at her from that blanket with the stars mirrored in her eyes and her lips swollen from all the kissing.
Harry didn’t appear once. Not in a single flicker of memory. Which was more than disconcerting, considering he had occupied a quarter of her life.
“This place is gorgeous,” one of the contestants said, yanking Harper out of her head like a cold splash of water. Shequickly raised her trusty camera and snapped Nadia, a beautiful woman with dark skin and a head full of corkscrew curls, staring dreamily at Megan.
The bachelorette and ten contestants were already spread around a low wooden table that had been set up at the edge of the terrace. It was draped in a creamy linen cloth that fluttered slightly in the warm morning breeze. Flights of Falanghina, Greco di Tufo, and Aglianico were set up in front of them, as well as cheese boards lined with fresh mozzarella di Bufala, creamy burrata, smoked provola, pecorino bites, and wedges of lemon-zested ricotta.
“I’ve been to the Amalfi Coast three times, and I’ve never been to this wine farm,” Tori announced. “I’m honestly shocked.” She had springy dark curls and bright red lips that reminded Harper of those lipstick ads at Sephora. Harper swung her lens toward her as Tori leaned in to sniff the wine in her glass and snapped a shot.
“Three times?” Jamie asked. She was tall with half a shaved head and a tattoo of a wave curling around her wrist. She reached over the table for a small knife and cut into a circle of garlic butter. Harper clicked the shutter just as she spread it on a cracker. “Really?”
“Okay, now I feel under-traveled,” Eve said, laughing as she lifted her glass. She sat near the end of the table, deep brown skin glowing in the morning light. A wild crown of corkscrew curls spilled around her shoulders. “I’m from Atlanta, and the farthest I got this year before this show was Savannah for my cousin’s baby shower. Which was beautiful, but nobody handed me wine flights and burrata on a terrace overlooking the Amalfi Coast.”
Harper swung the lens toward her just in time to catch the grin she flashed at Megan, bright and quick and a little flirtier than she probably meant it to be.
“I have family here,” Tori explained, lifting her hair off her neck. “My cousin lives over in Atrani. She works at one of the little ceramic shops with her new boyfriend. It’s actually quite a romantic story.”
“How so?” Elena asked. She was petite, with olive skin and dark hair that she tied back with a lemon-patterned scarf. She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, giving Tori her full attention. Harper snapped a photo.
“Well,” Tori said, seemingly happy to have everyone’s attention—especially Megan’s—directed at her. “My cousin was actually married to some rich investment banker from New York. Let’s call him Jim for all intents and purposes. They had a villa up in Ravello. The place was huge. You could fit a full NFL field in their backyard.”