“God, the pictures lie” drops out of my mouth.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Leonie says.

  A wide roundabout is as far as we can travel by SUV. The villa entrance looms behind a symmetrical maze of hedgerows and marble pillars. As a guard approaches, Kelly checks her phone. “The guys already parked, and they’re coming over now. We’ll keep you in the AC as long as we can.” She rolls down the window and flashes a digital permit.

  The uniformed attendant points ahead. “You can unload here, and you have two hours past closing.”

  The sisters dart around to the back to pull out several gear bags, and I get a double glimpse of nineteen-year-old male in the distance. Gordon and Baz. Baz and Gordon. A duo of unlikely blokes, chuckling as they stroll around a pillar topped with a lion’s head. I don’t know where to look first; my heart is a thunderous machine when they realize I’m here. When they slow and slightly drift apart, squinting into the tinted window glass.

  In a whoosh of heat, Kelly opens my door. She and Leonie gather up the trailing dress fabric and help me from the cab. They loop my train around my arm, imploring me to keep the delicate hem off the ground. My feet, clad in lent Valentino heels, find solid pavement. I’m staring at the pointy toes, afraid to look up and spill too much. Or spill the wrong emotion to the wrong guy in front of the wrong audience.

  Kelly tosses Leonie the keys to park the SUV. “¿Qué bolá?” she says, signaling Baz. “If you try to kiss or even touch my model, it’s your funeral. My photos will be perfect, ¿entiendes?”

  This throws a brick into my nervous little bubble, and I lift my head.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll admire her from a safe distance,” Baz says. I cast him a quick smile and shoot out a flappy wave. He’s dressed like the girls in simple black.

  And yes, Gordy is right there, marking the perimeter of my vision. Time moves at half speed as I get my first good look at him. And holy wonder, what a picture he makes already. In front of this historic villa, Gordon Wallace wears Italian tailoring like another skin. Pewter-colored trousers barely graze below his anklebone, dusting over black elongated loafers. His jacket flares and curves in every right place. Fitted but not tight. And the white shirt and slightly deeper-charcoal tie are both clean and modern.

  “I won’t touch her, either,” Gordon quips with just enough gray to make me wonder if he’s wearing a costume on the inside, too. I meet his eyes, searching for the us we know in this foreign place.

  “Oh yes, you will,” Kelly says, sending my pulse skittering. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Baz flashes me a cheeky, amused look I can’t decipher and runs over to assist with Kelly’s gear. They divide up the bags, likely discussing photography matters I should probably observe. If I weren’t total mush.

  Complicated, complicated, complicated is the new song in my head as Gordon strides my way. (How I kissed Baz, and he left me with an open invitation. How last weekend Gordon pulled a new string inside me, unraveling old wounds. And I pulled back.)

  “Hiya. Didn’t think you’d turn up quite like this,” Gordon says, immediately blanching, but too late to stop my face from twisting up quizzically. He juts out his hands. “No, fuck—that came out all wrong.”

  I’d cross my arms, but this train. “Really?” I deadpan, my gaze sharpening. “Because I was going to say the same about you.”

  He snaps into a mock glare, stepping up close to raise the wager. “Not bad for a couple of—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hampshire rug rats.” I shrug. “You’ll do.”

  He’s unmoving, but his eyes are twin candle flames. “You as well, Flora.”

  Flora, not Squiggs.

  “Damn, you two! I haven’t even given you my photo story yet,” Kelly barks into our moment. We break apart, and I find Baz, loaded down with gear, pivoting out of a long stare. He strides up to Kelly, and they motion for us to follow down a sculpture-dotted walkway.

  “What’s a photo story?” Gordon asks. “And do you need help with… that?”

  “Oh, you mean my comet tail?”

  “I was thinking of calling it your procession of adoring fans, the fabric edition.” He silences his phone and stows it. “I’m quite sure Kelly won’t fancy any barking-dog notifications disrupting her shoot.”

  I laugh at both points, and he follows without a hint of awkwardness—for once in forever. It feels like a Miami oasis. “A photo story is like a mood script for the shoot,” I tell him.

  On the walk to the first location, we learn ours. We’re to play a star-crossed couple that’s slipped away from a ball inside the villa. The garden feels as old as this tale, leafy and dewy with birdsong and moss-covered stone and coral-reef matter.

  “Stand here and hold the bars like this, please,” Kelly directs as she positions me at the threshold of a massive gate with floral ironwork. Leonie unfurls the train behind me. “Pretend you’re sneaking out to meet someone.”

  Baz has the reflector ready as I flash my strapless, pale blue bodice to the camera, its delicate folds pleating from bust to hip before the skirt expands. Click, click, click. I hear it a dozen times. Along with cue after cue.

  Soon she places Gordon on the other side of the gate. As directed, I reach toward him longingly. Click. For the next series, I lay one hand on his shoulder as he turns his cheek into my touch.

  “Okay there, Squiggs?” he whispers between shots.

  “Yeah. This is just… different.”

  Kelly waves her arm. “Gordon, grab Flora like you’ve been waiting all night for her to find you. I want to see lust. Pull her through the gate. Oye, Leonie, her clip.”

  “Oh, she wants lust, does she?” He winks at me and plants one hand around my waist, drawing me in. “Hi there.”

  “Hi,” I manage, feeling the train being swooped around our front as Leonie fixes the sparkly barrette above my ear. Gordon was right earlier; I’ve never turned up in front of him in such finery. And my hair’s never been asked to do this. To cluster into a tight bouquet at the side of my head in a modern flamenco style. And I’ve never been asked to stare so long at Gordon, in a way that would be downright rude outside a photo session. Held in pose after pose, I discover more than handfuls of easily missed details. I realize how much everything works—the way a thousand things construct the unique shape of him. A burst of self-consciousness comes with the next shot stream. Gordon’s been staring back just as deeply. What shape do I make, and has any of it changed?

  I get no answers. Kelly’s “Okay, perfect, break!” wedges us apart, and Baz moves us into a lush part of the garden with weathered staircases and reflecting pools. Here we’re looser, with more space to make the poses feel grand and cinematic, straight out of a story. That’s fitting, because one keeps reeling inside of me—but it’s my own story, not a stage version with a costume dress. Not a fake-date ploy or a scene where I’ve cropped out all the bad and difficult parts. A real picture that fits into a future. And maybe a dream.

  My wish remains, pealing softly as we set off for the next stunning vista. The crew springs ahead to set up, and Gordon and I are told to come slowly so we don’t get too tired or hot. Leonie gives me flip-flops for the walk, and Gordon gathers up my train this time.

  “I came here with my family years ago,” he says. “But it’s even more incredible now that I’ve learned about the architectural history of the region.”

  “It’s like a tropical fairyland,” I say in wonder. “I want to come back.”

  When he doesn’t respond, I turn. Find him staring into the damp thicket. “I said it wrong, last Sunday,” he whispers. “My explanation came out badly.”

  I shiver and swallow hard; I guess we’re doing this. “It wasn’t all you. Sometimes I hear things badly.”

  “Hmm” vibrates between his lips. “I usually have chips to help with that. Pub Subs didn’t cut it.”

  I hold a secret smile as we follow the others and their dark shadow of photography black. “Guess not.”

  Gordon’s pulling me along by the train, not too fast, but it’s strange being attached to him in this way. “I wish I’d said that I noticed the way you reacted to classmates and teachers,” he starts. “And I wanted to be something more usual for you. Sometimes we treat grieving people with too much care. We’re afraid to make them feel…”

  “Human. Like they’re more than their grief.”

  “Yeah. So I wasn’t pranking you and being a jokester and pretending to be your friend just to be funny. I did it because I thought I was your friend.”

  “You were. And I’m sorry.” I look up at him, chin crumpling. “You were the one person who didn’t treat me like glass. You seemed to know when I needed to be a kid. To muck around even when I was being rotten and obstinate. You’ve never stopped, all these years.”

  “Seeing through your muck?”

  “Seeing me,” I say, and the truth of it runs me over and all the way through. Seeing the real me. It’s from the center of this feeling that I make a choice and a change, so much greater than the shift from jeans to ball gowns. “I’ve had to keep a secret. I’m not dating Baz the way I let on. It’s an agreement to help him with a business and family matter. There’s loads more behind it.”

  Rarely do I outtrick Gordon. Our steps have slowed, and his face flips through a pile of expressions. Shock, amusement, awe, and a tinge of something bent and blue that I can’t name. But then he guffaws, tossing his head back. “Wow.” Two beats pass, then “Bloody hell, you had me fooled.”

  “I learned from the best,” I say through a gritty laugh. “Keeping it hidden was about staying true to my promise to Baz. I mean, this is something I would’ve told you—before—without thinking. But I felt like I couldn’t. Now things are different, though. Maybe I’m different, and I’m not okay with this one promise making me feel entirely untrue to myself. Not anymore.”

  “Hey, we’re ready up here!” Kelly calls, and apprehension rolls down my back.

  I come to a halt. “Wait. Please don’t let on that you know. Baz is shooting Pilar’s wedding, and he’s been so cool with helping me with photography. That part’s true.”

  Gordon raises a palm. “I swear on your cat aversion, and my LEGO Death Star model, and all my house drawings—”

  “Apúrense, beautiful people!” Kelly calls again.

  I exhale and snap my focus back to the shoot. Baz and Leonie are setting up a tripod just ahead. And I realize I’ve been ambling along the north face of the villa without truly seeing much of anything. Gordon loops the train back over my arm, and the remnants of my hasty reveal scatter into complete awe at what’s in front of us.

  “This has always been my favorite part of the estate,” Gordon says. We’re at the wide expanse of Biscayne Bay, what is essentially Vizcaya’s backyard. A massive shipwreck-like structure juts across the water, opposite a dilapidated dock.

  “What is that thing?”

  “A limestone barge that served as a breakwater for the villa and the boats that docked here,” Gordon explains. We stroll forward onto a landing tiled with a massive sun motif while Kelly and Baz take test shots along the water. They scour the best angles as the sun drops westward behind the mansion.

  “Oh look!” Dozens of mermaid statues are carved in crumbling stone along the barge, as if they’re studying their reflections in the water.

  “Yes, they’re much loved in these parts. There’s talk of restoring them,” Gordon says. “But some feel they’re best left alone to wear.” He pauses to look over my shoulder. “Either way you’ll be photographed in front of them tonight.”

  “And so will you.”

  And so will we.

  “For this scene, I want a classic dance feel,” Kelly declares as Baz arranges Gordon and me on the sun-motif plaza. Which is not at all awkward. “Pretend you’re alone but hearing the music from the ball inside the villa.”

  Baz switches to taking test shots while Leonie rushes over with her tools, fixing my red lippy and fastening up my train, working a bit of product into the wilt of Gordon’s hair. “Shiny,” the teen makeup artist says, surveying her work.

  After she backs away, Gordon grabs my hand, elevating us in a formal waltz pose. “We’ve never danced, you know?”

  This can’t be true. “But we’ve been to a hundred—”

  “Not clubbing,” he says. “We’ve never slow-danced.”

  Again, his memory shows up better than mine. “Well. Did you envision our first dance dressed in clothes we can’t afford, acting for the camera?”

  “No,” he says on a stilted laugh. “But if you think about it, that’s rather on-brand for me.” He shakes his head. “For us.”

  On-brand? I don’t get the chance to question him before Kelly calls for us to move. At first my mind is spinning more than my feet. My head scrambled under this elegant hairdo.

  “Come on, Squiggs,” Gordon says, bringing me in. “We can do this.” A faraway longing clings to the words. But he sets off with purpose to the sound of the sea. I drop my eyelids and let him lead. Feel Leonie unfurling my skirt and ducking out of the shot. And with the air swirling into the fabric, over my bare legs, I’m dancing with my oldest friend.

  “Your dress is flying,” Gordon says into my ear. For some shots, he pulls me against his chest in a way that eclipses all the times we’ve hugged.

  Other cues have him stretching me long at the end of his arm. I envy the freedom we make and want to steal some from this borrowed gown. But beneath every sway and turn, I keep wondering what he meant by acting being our brand. And why did it not sound like part of a comedy show script, like usual? Why didn’t it feel that way?

  “Amazing. That dress did its thing,” Kelly says, squealing over the shots with Baz. “Wait until you see this magic.”

  We halt. The secret music of the sea and forest cuts away.

  “Last stop is right next door. The teahouse,” Baz says, packing up.

  Panting from the brisk moves, Gordon and I walk toward the adjacent gazebo. We step from an ornate footbridge into a tiny domed palace. It’s lavishly windowed with a glass ceiling, so the light plays along the mosaic floor, and the sides flare open to the wind and the water lapping below. The current moves with only slight restlessness; it’s hard to believe a major storm is two days away.

  “Hello, most beautiful place I’ve ever been,” I whisper.

  “I know. And you’re dressed to match,” Gordon says.

  Leonie comes up, breaking into our gawking. “This is the end, so we’re going to mess up your looks a bit. That okay?”

  “Er, I guess. Sure,” I say after silently conferring with Gordon.

  Leonie grins. “Awesome. Gordon, you’re gonna love me right now. Lose that tie.”

  It begins like this, the undoing of our outfits along with our story. And in five minutes Gordon is down to shirtsleeves, polished cotton rolled to his elbows. And then it’s my turn. With a few yanks my hair tumbles.

  I catch Baz’s stare as I shake out the waves. His shy smile seems knowing in the strangest way. A little too on display, I feel myself flushing as red as my lips.

  Kelly steps up. She’s switched cameras, and I’d ask something professional about that if I weren’t down to brain dust. “You two have sold everything so far. But this is gonna go beyond lust. I want it all, so pretend we’re not here.”

  Beyond lust, Gordon mouths. We share a private giggle before we step into place.

  This scene starts with me, hair rioting in the middle of the gazebo, arms extended, my train rustling up and wild. Then Gordon moves in and shakes the hem like he’s launching a lover into the wind, our eyes locked.

  “Gah! Amazing,” Kelly calls, crouching low on the tile flooring. “Now move up against the wall, Gordon, and you follow, Flora. Just sell it.”

  Tucked between the tall, open alcoves, Gordon leans against the paneled wall. “Here,” he says, winding my arms around his neck. Open palms press against the bare skin of my back.

  With each click, we lean in until we’re close enough to count each other’s eyelashes, and our mouths hang slack in an almost kiss, giving the camera an unfulfilled ache. He’s all minty breath and clean sweat, and I’ve never touched him quite like this. Never felt his hands on places that have only been grabbed and gripped against dingy alley walls. Not this way, like something beautiful.

  I try to forget we’re being watched as I get comfortable with the swell of his biceps and pecs. Learn the strong cording of his neck. My skin ignites as he fists pieces of my gown against my thigh, then bends me toward the ground in a dramatic dip.

  The last shots have Gordon leaning against an ornate railing, bracing me between his legs and facing the camera smugly. The sea teases behind us, and his arms clamp around my waist, my hand rising to cup his cheek. I close myself up until my senses are down to two—the ones about feeling and fitting somewhere. Fitting right here, dizzy and daydreamed until new parts of me unwind. Tingling, dreaming parts. The kind that whisper, What if he asked again, right now? Those sweet and shy things at the inn? Would you push him out another door, or would you pull and take and…?

  And would I dare?

  The question twists a hundred ways as minutes, or more, tick by. I don’t become fully aware again until the zip of canvas bags and muffled words fill the teahouse.

  “That, amigos, is a wrap. And I mean, wow.”

  I find I’m still cocooned in a delicious fog, emerging slowly into the sound of the others debriefing and the rushing thrum of my pulse.

  “You killed it, Kell,” Baz says. “But I’m still right about that garden gate shot.”

  “In your dreams, Marín,” she retorts, and tosses him a reflector like a giant Frisbee.

  By some miracle or curse, Gordon and I are left alone in the teahouse. Leonie and Baz run to get the cars. Kelly’s the last to leave, toting out gear and telling us we have fifteen minutes to chill and enjoy the scenery without working.