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to the ceiling, in a charming way that a foreigner might do, but there’s something entrancing about his intensity. “Sky, like your eyes. Blue, and crystal-clear.”
    I chew my lip, nervous all of a sudden, and I realize that besides my bra, I’m naked from the waist up. I’ve been too distracted by all that has gone on, and I quickly cover my plain-Jane black bra. I wonder where Blake might be, thinking that shouting for him might be juvenile.
    The man before me lets out a hearty laugh that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He bites back his smile as he waves his other hand, which I now notice holds a camera with a large lens and even larger flash attached. It looks like a heavy piece of technology, but he waves it like it’s a feather. The maneuver commands all the hands to leave my body and the people to scatter. I reach for the button on my jeans, realizing it’s undone. I must have been mere moments away from being in just my skivvies.
    “Pardon me for my rudeness. Sometimes I get ahead of myself,” he adds, as if that’s a good enough excuse for what’s happened, and I’m not sure if that was even an apology.
    “Rudeness is right! I just came to watch my boyfriend work! Where are my clothes?”
    I don’t necessarily find his behavior angering, but my voice comes out outraged. I can’t focus. I feel bombarded, thrown off guard, and erratic.  
I need to get a grip.
    I take in a quick breath, examining the stranger, noticing his strong, square jaw behind the thick stubble on his face. Jeez, I thought Blake was handsome, and he still is, but this man looks like “Artsy European Ken.” I note his fitted maroon dress shirt, which has a stylish minuscule print on the fabric. I want to roll my eyes. Pretty people make me uncomfortable.
    Finally, getting ahold of myself, I see his eyes soften as he attempts to hide a smile. It’s charming how his eyes look so kind in his surprisingly young face, but there’s something knowing about his stare, too.
    “Skyler,
per favore
—please, just one moment.”
    I get the sinking feeling he’s hiding his laughter. I release a chuff, frustrated at the fact that hearing him say my name commands my immediate attention, but it feels odd hearing it said so crisply by a stranger.
    “Just tell me what’s going on?  
Per favore.
” I mimic him with the most basic phrase of Italian I know
.
    “Don’t you want to know who I am?” he teases, toying with my patience. He gives me a small smile, and I find its bashful curve adorable when set in such a masculine face, scruff and all. I hold back my mirroring smile, and I question why this feels funny.
    With my arms crossed over my chest, I take a deliberate step back. I’m too close, less than an arm’s length away. I tilt my head to the side, faking sweetness. “Who are you?” I must admit at this point I’m curious.
    As if the distance I put between us serves more to his advantage than to mine, his free hand scratches at his chin as he blatantly lets his eyes meticulously calculate my body—but that’s exactly what his gaze is:
calculating
. It makes me nervous, sure, but it isn’t the way Blake looks at me: devouring, salacious, hungry, loving. No, this man’s look is practically mathematical, as if his eyes are solving the trigonometry of my body.
    His eyes spring back to mine and widen infinitesimally, as if in gleeful anticipation, but it’s slight. “My name is Giovanni Vigilucci—it’s a mouthful, and a name only a mother could love.” He licks his lips as he pauses a beat, as if expecting me to laugh at his joke, but I stand unmoving. He clears his throat while nonchalantly running a hand through his stark hair, regaining his balance. “Everyone calls me Gio. I am but the humble photographer.”
    Humble? Why do I doubt that?
    I clench my jaw, even though I should have assumed the latter by his handheld equipment, and make a mental note to   Google   him later. Maybe he’s famous and