“Well, it’s not much fun dwelling on the negative, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” He looks at me with better understanding. “Thank you, for answering my questions honestly.”

“You did the same for me; it was the least I could do.”

He smiles again, and it is more open and genuine. “Let’s get these photos, shall we?”

I screw up my nose. “If we have to. I’m not very good at posing, sorry. Always have to fight the urge to pull a face.”

He laughs. “Relax. I know what I’m doing. You’ll be a natural by the time I’m finished with you.”

Chapter Eighteen

He is a wonder to watch as he works. The way he scans an area for optimum lighting angles and the aesthetics of the background. He seems to know instinctively what will work and what won’t, and I meekly move as he tells me, sometimes imperceptibly, until he is satisfied. At first I am self-conscious and stiff, but his voice as he gives directions is calming and soon I relax, determined to enjoy the experience.

“Tilt your chin up a little,” he says from behind the lens. “And angle your head to the right. Perfect.”

I am leaning against the trunk of the willow tree. Its bark is scratchy against my back but it doesn’t hurt, and I quite enjoy sensations that remind me I’m alive. The shade from the hanging tendrils of branches is a welcome relief, especially when I am wearing a full-length gown that weighs more than its delicate appearance would suggest. A fly buzzes around my head and I try to blow it away without moving my head.

“Stay still.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Put your right foot slightly against the tree and bend your knee.”

“Why? You can’t see it under the dress.”

He clicks his tongue and says mock-sternly, “Are you seriously questioning me? The professional photographer?”

“Sorry.” I do as he asked.

“I should think so.” He takes a photo and checks the screen on the back of his camera. “Perfect.” Then he walks over and shows me the photos, flicking back and forward between the ones before he asked me to move and afterward.

“Ah,” I say. “I see.”

The subtle move has emphasized the contouring of the dress, and I look more relaxed, like I am truly a bride simply hanging out in a paddock as opposed to someone modeling a dress.

“Trust the master now?” he teases.

“Oh, no, I never trust anyone who refers to themselves as ‘master.’ Far too Fifty Shades.”

“Fifty shades of what?”

“Seriously?”

He looks at me blankly.

“Maybe google it,” I say, flushing slightly at the thought of trying to explain the subject matter to him.

“OK.” He goes back to his position and starts taking more photos.

“So, have you done this before?” I ask.

“A photo shoot in a field?”

“Yes.”

“Not someone in bridal wear, no. But I did shoot a naked fireman with a leg up on a hay bale and a discreetly placed pitchfork once. It was for a charity calendar.”