The husky croons of an alternative rock singer greet me when I open the door, along with some percussive beats and futuristic-sounding guitar. Celeste taps her steering wheel to lower the volume and says, “Hey,” while I get into the passenger seat.

“Hi.”

As I put my bag in the back of the car, I don’t miss Celeste’s eyes giving me a once-over, and I get a slight satisfactory thrill when her eyes linger on my chest the moment I take off my faux fur coat. I specifically wore this blue sundress because of the cleavage it shows off.

“You look beautiful as always,” she says, only taking her eyes off me to pull her car back into the flow of traffic.

“You look pretty sexy yourself.”

Celeste is impossibly cool in her black leather jacket, heather-gray sweater dress, and white knee-high boots. Along with her blue aviators, she looks like she could star in a car commercial herself instead of being the person who’d shoot one.

“Felt like dressing up,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road. “Even if it’s mostly a work trip for me.”

I shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with working in style.”

Celeste nods in agreement.

When we reach the coastal part of the road, she presses a button above our heads to open up the moon roof. The salty sea breeze pleasantly chills the inside of the car as we continue our drive up north.

“Sorry,” she says. “I should have asked beforehand. Is this too cold for you?”

“No, it’s nice. I have my coat.”

I’ve finished putting my coat back on when we reach the Golden Gate Bridge. In the previous times I’d seen the bridge, it’d always been covered, either fully or partially, by the fog. Today, though, the majestic reddish-orange arches are in plain view, taking my breath away.

I take a quick video on my phone as we drive across, and Celeste slows down—or as much as she can in the flow of traffic—so I can fully capture the view.

When we’re off the bridge, I tell her, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she replies. “Contrary to popular belief, not all professional photographers are condescending assholes who shit on Instagram.”

I laugh. “I noticed. Your account has so many followers.” The moment I say those words, I want to die of embarrassment. I can’t believe I admitted to Celeste that I looked her up on social media. But she’s the one whose cheeks turn red.

“You looked up my Instagram?” she asks, uncharacteristically sheepish. “Recently? What did you think?”

“It’s great! You have some very cool shots on it. And you have such great range, too. It’s no wonder you’re such a popular photographer. I got so proud just thinking about how you continued following your passion after college.”