Tightening her grip on her camera, she headed toward the pair, hoping against hope that Wyatt Keene would be as nice as his name felt rolling off her tongue.
“Mr. Keene.” At the sound of Casey’s voice, the man holding the equipment wheeled abruptly toward her. She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Sinclair. I’m sorry I’m early, but there was much less traffic than I expected. Anyway, I always say it’s better to be early than late.”
Casey felt her smile fade under the man’s frowning scrutiny. Heavens! Was it a crime to show up early? Or did he think she was too chatty? She tended to babble when she was nervous. And boy, was she nervous. The man kept staring at her with eyes that were even blacker than his hair, and not very friendly. “Are you Wyatt Keene?” she asked hesitantly, tempering her earlier enthusiasm.
“Yes. This is Mike Granville, the coach. We’ll be taking team photos today for the yearbook. The captains have props they want to display, and Mike wants us to use trophies. Bats, balls and such. Or signs with the sport’s insignia. In the past I’ve had the captains kneel in front of their teams. I told Mike I’ll take the first photo of his soccer squads. The most difficult job will be getting the kids to stop fooling around. Otherwise, it’s standard picture-taking protocol.”
Casey opened her mouth to say she understood, but Keene went on with his instructions. “Watch me from the bleachers. You’ll see what I mean. When I’m done, you can shoot the swim team. Five or six frames ought to be enough. If I think you’ve done okay, you can photograph the varsity and junior varsity baseball players.”
He spun without another word, picked up his gear and strode across the gym. Casey heard him call out to boys and girls in soccer uniforms.
What a hard nose! Even the coach must have thought so, because he offered Casey a sympathetic glance before heading off to tell a group of noisy boys to be quiet.
The real pity of it, Casey thought, was that Keene was darn good-looking, with his angular jaw, brooding jet-black eyes and a stubbled chin that was at odds with his almost military-short haircut. She guessed he might be thirtyish. He was probably an inch over six feet, which made her feel much shorter than her five-foot-two height warranted. The photographer had the build of a natural athlete. Not too thin, muscular or bulky, but just right in her estimation.
His attitude left a lot to be desired, though. Casey ground her teeth as she hurried after him. If she hadn’t been so desperate for this job, she would’ve walked out right then.
She pulled up short directly behind Keene as he fumbled the tilt head he was screwing to a tripod. Casey grabbed for the delicate piece of equipment and their hands collided.
“What are you doing?” He all but leaped away. “I said take a seat in the bleachers where you can watch the first group shot.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, annoyed by his attitude. She slapped the tilt head into his hand and stomped off to take a seat.
Part of her fumed. But her heart also pounded at being chastised for trying to be helpful. Keene acted as if he’d rather not breathe the same air. Her stomach got all jittery again. What was his problem? She’d been counting on this job, but now…Disappointment crept in. It was patently obvious that he’d taken an instant dislike to her. Casey hadn’t the faintest idea why. She glanced down at her capris and sandals. Was she dressed too casually? She’d thought it was important to be able to move comfortably for the shoot, but maybe Keene had expected something more professional.
At her foster parents’ studio in Dallas, she’d even worn jeans on field shoots. But then, Len and Dolly Howell were good-hearted people. They’d offered to come down here and help her move straight back home with them when she’d called to let them know Dane had left her. If they had any inkling she was pregnant and almost broke, they wouldn’t wait for an invitation; they’d be here. Which was why she couldn’t tell them. Not only were both getting on in years, but they’d already helped her more than enough. It was time for her to stand on her own two feet.
Casey flopped down on the hard bleachers and studied the gym more thoroughly. When would the other applicants arrive? Surely she wasn’t the only person vying for this job. She’d planned to make such a stunning first impression that Keene would automatically want to hire her. Apparently she’d blown that in the first five minutes.
With her purse and camera balanced on her lap, she settled her chin stubbornly on her hands. She would show Keene she was the best person for this job.
WYATT DIDN’T RELAX UNTIL a sidelong glance revealed that Casey Sinclair had found a spot off the court. He shouldn’t have growled at her, but he’d been thrown off stride. First by her breezy warmth, but more by the touch of her hand brushing his.
He’d told Greg Moore, his best friend and business accountant, that he wasn’t comfortable with the fact that only two of the thirty applicants had enough experience to fill Angela’s shoes. The other qualified applicant had placed too many conditions and restrictions on what he wanted in a job for Wyatt to even consider contacting him for an interview. Wyatt knew it shouldn’t be relevant, but he wished his one viable candidate wasn’t so attractive. Her eyes—well, suffice it to say they drew a man in. And Wyatt didn’t need that kind of complication after the awful year he’d had.
He massaged his chest and motioned for the first soccer team to gather around. He spent a few minutes arranging the kids by height for a better composition. When he stepped behind his camera, a long forgotten burst of pleasure came roaring back. It felt good to be getting on with work he loved.
Greg had been right to prod and badger him. Wyatt had frittered away a year during which he took no paying jobs. Looking back, the busywork he’d done, like painting his house inside and out and refinishing the bedroom set Angela had wanted him to do, hadn’t given him any satisfaction. In fact, as soon as it was completed he’d advertised on Craigslist and had given the set away. Throughout that time he’d avoided his friends and drifted—until Greg said that if he didn’t snap out of his grief, he’d risk losing his house and the studio he’d poured so much money into. The studio he’d built for Angela.
Really, Wyatt had no choice but to give Casey Sinclair the opportunity to show what she could do. He needed her. According to her résumé, and the references he’d got from her previous employer in Dallas, she had all the skills he needed to get Keene Studio up and running. And that had to be Wyatt’s focus now.
COACH GRANVILLE CAME OVER and sat down next to Casey as Wyatt took shot after shot of the soccer teams. “I dread picture days,” he lamented. “The kids are antsy to get it over with. I’ve always liked Wyatt’s work. He gets the job done, and has a knack for dealing with kids. I for one am happy he’s opening his studio again. Last year I had to work with another firm. That photographer had zero rapport with teenagers, and the pictures reflected it. I can’t tell you how many calls I fielded from unhappy parents.”
Casey cut her gaze from Wyatt to the coach. “His studio’s been closed? I wasn’t aware of that. He advertised in the Austin American-Statesman. I assumed he’d lost a photographer, or that the business needed extra help.”
Granville gnawed his lip, abruptly clamming up. It was obvious he’d rather not tell her any more about Wyatt Keene. While Casey search for something to say, he bolted from his seat.
“All I can tell you is Wyatt had valid reasons for taking a hiatus,” he said. Then the coach was gone, rustling up a gaggle of boys shooting baskets at the far end of the gym.
Keene had finished with the soccer
