"Who were you talking to?" Isaac asks as he descends the stairs.

"I don't know," I answer, looking up at him. "He said that Dylan gave him this address and that his name was Neil. Sound familiar?"

Isaac frowns. "No. What'd he look like?"

I describe him, and Isaac's expression grows more mystified. "Huh. He sounds sketchy. We can ask Dylan about it later."

Something skitters and jumps in my chest. "What do you mean we can 'ask Dylan' later?"

"Shit, I forgot to tell you," Isaac says, standing on the bottom step and leaning against the banister. "Dyl's coming up with the guys to help move stuff. Just for tonight."

"What about the show?" I ask, keeping my voice and expression neutral to hide my sudden anxiety.

Isaac stares at me a moment and then smacks himself in the forehead. "Shit—I forgot. Oh well, there's probably a few tickets left—it'll just cost more."

The thought of having to see Dylan sooner than I'd expected has thrown me for a loop, and I jump on the first idea that crosses my mind without really thinking it through.

"Actually, I listened to some of that band's music last night," I lie, "and I'm not really into it. Dylan can have your extra ticket. He likes that kind of thing."

Isaac's expression falls. "But...I don't want to go with Dylan. I want to go with you."

"Well, I don't want to go at all. Sorry," I say, with a little more bite than I intend.

I can tell Isaac is surprised and hurt, and I know I'm being an ungracious jerk; but if that's what it takes to get out of spending the evening in Dylan's company, then I don't care. Besides, some time alone might be just what I need to do some digging on 'Dyl,' as his friends apparently call him.

"Hey," Isaac says, hopping off the bottom step to stand before me, "are you okay? You look a little freaked out."

"I'm fine," I assure him, dredging up a smile. "I just didn't sleep well."

That's true enough. I have trouble relaxing in new environments, and I'd lain awake most of last night and the night before.

"Oh, that sucks. I used to have insomnia, so I understand" he says. "The only thing that helped me was snuggling a stuffed toy. I don't think Uncle Reg has any of those around, but I'd be willing to fill the role if you want."

He waggles his eyebrows and then laughs at whatever he sees on my face.

"I'm kidding! God, you're so cute I could kiss you—but I won't," he adds quickly, hands raised. "Promise."

I roll my eyes. He's really good at keeping me off balance, if nothing else.

"Actually," he says slowly, biting his lip, "I was hoping you'd model for me this morning—you know, stand in for Belle so I can take some practice shots—make sure I've got a good idea of the best settings and angles and shit before the 'real deal.' The guys won't get here until this afternoon, so we'll have plenty of time."

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "I don't mind. I just have to stand around, right?"

"Actually..."

At this point, I should expect something unusual to follow whenever he starts a sentence with that word, but he still takes me by surprise.

"It'll be best if I can get the colors right. I'll need you to wear something like her dress. A sheet should work."

I stare at him. "You want me to wear...a sheet?"

"Like a wedding dress, yeah," he confirms, nodding.

"And you're going to take pictures of me, wearing the sheet, like a dress?"

He nods again, his expression absolutely earnest.

That's what wins me over. If there had been even a hint of laughter or joking in his manner, I'd have said no, but there's not. He's a professional, and it's clear he's serious.

"Okay," I agree, "just tell me what to do."

He looks like I just told him Christmas was coming early this year, and I can't help laughing at the sparkle of enthusiasm in his eyes.

"You really want to get this right, huh?" I ask.

"For Belle? Absolutely. Also, if I get some great shots of the wedding, I can use them to attract some actual customers. I want some real shots of you, too, remember. Maybe by the water—something sexy." He reaches out to touch my hair and then stops himself. "Sorry," he withdraws his hand and shrugs. "I keep forgetting."

"It's okay," I shrug in return. "I guess..." I press my lips together, not sure exactly how to say this. "I trust you, so it's okay."

He smiles, his face lighting, and then he claps his hands loudly, making me jump.

"Great! I'll get the sheet, you get undressed."

"Undressed?" I repeat, suddenly unsure again.

"At least your shirt," Isaac says, looking me up and down with a critical eye. "Belle's dress shows a lot of skin, and I need to get the contrast right."

"Uh...okay."

I do as he says, removing my sweater and t-shirt, and wait for him outside on the manicured lawn with my arms across my chest in the chill morning air.

Isaac joins me a moment later, a white bed-sheet folded in his arms and a pack of safety pins in his mouth.

"Okay, hold your arms out...yep, just like that. Alright, hold still..."

In short order, I'm 'clothed'—like some pre-fairy-godmother Cinderella—in a bed-sheet made to look like a passable imitation of a dress.

Isaac steps back to admire his work. "You're gorgeous," he assures me, as though I might be worried about how I appear. "Fucking heaven-sent."

His rapture is purely professional, and I laugh at his unfiltered zeal. He raises his camera and takes his first shot as I do.

"Oh my God—you're my muse," he moans, looking at the digital display and pressing buttons with feverish rapidity. "Okay, and now look out at the lake."

He continues to give me orders like a Hollywood director for about an hour without pause until I have to pull him back to reality.

"Isaac, as fun as this is, I think I need a break," I say. "Are we almost done?"

"Almost, almost," he assures me. "I just need the shots of the bride and groom together. Hang on."

He sets his camera down and dons a dark sweatshirt over his white tee, clearly in imitation of a more formal suit. Then he gets his camera set up on a tripod, sets a timer, and runs across the lawn to me.

He takes a series of shots of us together from different angles, with different backgrounds: the lake, the mountains, the house...

At last, he's satisfied.

"One more," he says. "I think the lake background for this one."

He moves his tripod into position, and adjusts his settings.

"Okay, this is gonna be a 'burst'—a picture a second. It'll just keep going 'til I tell it to stop."

Running to join me, he loops his arm around my waist and hits the button on his remote shutter. Then he turns me this way and that, like we're dancing, one hand at my waist and one on my shoulder, and I join mine around his neck, unconsciously beginning to sway to a 3/4 rhythm playing in my head.

The camera shutter sets a slow tempo: Click...click...click; and with each measure, Isaac moves closer, until our bodies are almost touching.

We're just about the same height, though I'm maybe an inch taller, and his eyes are more gray than green as they reflect the sky. The freckles dusted across his cheeks stand out more vividly in this light, and his lips look soft and warm.

He leans closer still, and I feel his breath on my face. "For the picture," he says, eyes angled at my mouth, and then he brushes his lips over mine; a soft press, and another, in time with the camera's rhythmic click.

I don't hate it.

As I'd told him, I trust him; and once I trust someone, I don't mind their touch—especially if I have time to accustom myself to the new sensation.

He presses his mouth to mine one more time and doesn't draw back. Instead, I feel the ghost of his tongue along my bottom lip, and his hands on my waist pulling me closer.

And then the tinted glass that Isaac has managed to slip over my world shatters like a dropped vase full of blood-red roses.

"Holy fucking shit!" I hear someone exclaim.

Isaac pulls away from me abruptly, surprise on his face, and I look up to see his two surfer friends—Mike and Spencer—standing below us on the beach, staring with mouths agape in shock.

"Dude," Spencer—the blonder of the two—breathes with a look of mingled horror and fascination on his face. "The fuck...?"

Behind them stands another—my brother in blood, if not in spirit.

And if looks could kill...