Between Floors

The heels were a bad idea.

I know it the second I step out of the car. My heels click against the parking garage floor, loud as hell, like a countdown.

Fifteen minutes late, no coffee, and the morning already has it out for me.

It starts with my alarm. I set it — I know I set it — and somehow it decides today is the day to fail me. Then the traffic on Fifth is backed up all the way to the bridge, which, of course, why wouldn’t it be?

I sit in my car, fingers tapping the steering wheel, watching the minutes tick by, already calculating how far behind I am.

Now, I click down the hallway toward Studio B. The hallway is long and way too bright. Fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead. The walls are covered in framed covers and campaign prints. Most of them are mine. Any other morning, I might stop and look. Not today. Today I’m just trying to get to the room. My bag is heavy on my shoulder, sunglasses still on because I haven’t had a drop of coffee, and I’m not ready for anybody to look me in the eyes.

At least Mark will have everything set up. And if I know Mark, there will be coffee waiting on the table. Oat milk, two sugars, just how I like it.

Mark has been my photographer for three years. He knows my moods better than most people know my name. That one small hope carries me through the heavy studio doors.

The first thing I notice is that nothing is where it should be.

The lighting rigs are half up. My team is moving fast. Too fast. That kind of fast means something already went wrong before I even got here. My stylist is in the corner on the phone, waving his hand around. The backdrop is still rolled up against the wall. And the worst part, there’s no coffee in sight.

I pull my sunglasses off.

“What is going on in here?”

A few heads turn. My assistant starts walking toward me with that look on her face. The look that means she’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. But before she gets to me, I notice him.

His back is to me. He’s standing in front of the camera, messing with the lens, not even bothered by all the chaos. Like he’s done this a hundred times.

He’s Tall. Broad shoulders. Moving like he knows exactly what he’s doing. But why is he touching my camera? And where is Mark?

I walk straight toward him.

“What the hell is going on here?”

He turns around.

Oh.

I keep my face still. Years of modeling will teach you that. You learn how to hide what you’re really thinking. But somewhere behind my expression, a small, inconvenient thought...

He’s cute.

Not the point. Absolutely not the point right now.

“Where is Mark?”

The words are out of my mouth before he can even say anything. I don’t care about introductions right now.

He smiles — relaxed, completely unbothered — and extends his hand. “I’m Jordon. I’m covering for —”

“Where. Is. Mark.”

He drops his hand. Not offended, just waiting. Before he can answer, I hear my assistant’s heels behind me.

“Brittany! so Mark had a —”

Jordon clears his throat. “He called me this morning,” he says, interrupting. “Family emergency. He asked me to cover. I don’t know the details, but I can tell you I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and I’ll have the lighting and the backdrop set up by 7:30. You’re in good hands.”

My assistant blinks at him, and I blink at him too.

I look around the studio. Half the lights aren’t even up. The backdrop is still against the wall. And why is there no damn coffee?

“Good hands,” I say, flatly.

I look at him for another second, then turn and head straight for hair and makeup.

“Thirty minutes,” I call over my shoulder.

“I’ll be ready,” he says.

“I doubt it.”

When I come back at 7:29, every light is up, the backdrop is set, and there’s coffee on the table. I grab it without even stopping.

Oat milk. Two sugars. Perfect!

I don’t say a word. Just take a long sip before I step in front of the camera.

The shoot is one of those rare ones where time just disappears.

Jordon moves around the camera the way some people move through a room they’ve lived in their whole life. He’s quiet, confident, like he already knows where everything is. He doesn’t bark directions. He just talks. He says things like “chin just a hair to the left, hold that, right there, that’s it” in this low, steady voice that somehow cuts through the music and the noise of the crew.

Halfway through the first setup, I catch myself actually laughing at something he says. I can’t even remember what it was, but my stylist looks up from across the room and gives me a look.

I turn back to the camera before he can say anything.

By the second setup, I already forgot about my whole morning.

By the third, I’m having the best shoot I’ve had in months!

When we wrap, the crew is loose and loud. Everybody’s talking at once, and pulling equipment down. It’s that good kind of tired you only get when something actually goes right.

Jordon is scrolling through shots on the camera, and I watch him for a second from across the studio.

I need him back here. Like, all the time.

I grab my robe off the rack and head over to him before he can start packing up. I touch his arm to get his attention and tilt my head toward the far end of the studio, away from everyone else.

He follows.

“I want to offer you a full-time position,” I say, keeping my voice low. “On my team. Every shoot.”

He looks at me for a moment, just long enough that I wonder if he’s going to try and negotiate. Then he nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good.” I pull my robe tighter. “I’ll have my assistant type up the paperwork. But let’s sit down first and go over everything. You free for lunch tomorrow?”

“I am now.”

That actually makes me smile. I never do that unless it’s for the camera. “Then I’ll text you the place.” I start to head back to the dressing room, then pause. “Jordon?”

He looks up.

“Good shoot today.”

That same quiet smile from this morning. “You too.”