It figured she’d start with the relationship stuff. Frieda was nothing if not a romantic.

Cassie started with the events from last night, sprinkled in with discussions she’d had with Kir in the weeks before it, but carefully avoiding the physical aspects—a fact Frieda indicated her displeasure of with more than a few scowls. She wrapped it up with Kir’s insistence that he was not only willing and able to support her while she found her groove in a new business, but that he wouldn’t let up until she did.

She shrugged and motioned to the album in her lap. “So, here I am, trying to figure out what options I’ve got and which way I want to go from there. Kir thinks I ought to consider the candid work like Lizzy offered, but I’m not really convinced that’s my thing.”

Frieda leaned in and looked at the images on the exposed pages. “Well, have you really tried? I mean, if all you’ve got to go on are the stills you intentionally photographed, then maybe you’re making a decision without enough data.”

“I’ve got some candids.” Cassie turned the page. Then another. “They’re scattered in between everything else, but Kir likes them.”

She turned another page and the unmounted image she’d taken of Kir that day at Bacchanal slid into her lap. She held it up and grinned. He’d surprised her that morning when he’d reviewed all of her work. Had shown amazing support, even from the beginning.

“That’s a candid one,” Frieda said, “and it’s fabulous.”

“Well, it’s of Kir,” Cassie fired back with a roll of her eyes. “The guys on GQ covers look boring compared to him.”

“Mmm. True.” Frieda sipped her coffee, but kept her gaze on the picture. “You gotta admit though, it shows promise. What were you thinking about when you took it?”

How relaxed he seemed in the moment. How he owned the space around him and naturally drew attention wherever he went. Not just with women, but with everyone. The same way beasts in the forest took note of a wolf prowling through their habitat.

Her attention shifted to a woman near the edge of the image. The hat she wore was one of those long-brimmed Southern types reserved for ladies who loved afternoon tea no matter how hot it was, and her skirt and jacket were almost vintage Jackie O.

Kind of an odd outfit for Bacchanal, now that she thought about it. Not out of place really, but a little much for the time of day she’d taken the picture.

Wait a minute.

She drew the image closer and studied the woman’s profile.

“What?” Frieda said, leaning closer.

“I know that profile. I’ve seen it somewhere.”

Frieda narrowed her gaze. “You know, now that you say that, I think so, too. She’s got a little upturned nose. One of those that’s cute so you never really forget it.”

The nose.

It was the same as the woman she’d glimpsed that night at André’s. And she could have sworn the girl she’d seen at the coffee shop had a similar profile, but she’d had different-colored hair.