"Tilt your head towards the camera, mademoiselle."
Fighting a sigh, I shifted my head in the direction of the setting sun. Concealing it with broad shoulders, a french photographer stood behind his camera, waiting for me to look at the lens instead of my boyfriend's arms around my waist.
Jameson had insisted we take pictures in Paris, which was strange because I was usually the one that forced him to do so. Typically, he preferred his own memory over a photograph.
I, on the other hand, liked both.
Apparently though, Jameson had changed his mind due to our location. Paris was the city of love, after all. He must have realized that taking pictures anterior to the Eiffel Tower was absolutely worth it.
While I was extremely happy that we were getting our pictures taken, we'd been at it for over an hour now, and my feet were beginning to hurt. The only thing my heels were good for, it seemed, was matching the scarlet of my snug dress.
Jameson had even color coordinated his tie, which was surprising not only because he never wore ties, but also because the boy knew nothing about fashion sense. Even more, Jameson hardly ever wore ties.
Shoot, the first time I'd met him he'd been wearing a wrinkly, unbuttoned dress shirt.
"Le parfait," the cameraman said, which I assumed meant perfect.
While Claude seemed perfectly fluent in English, he appeared to be using his French vocabulary simply to confuse us.
He snapped a few photos, and I winced at the flash.
Jameson's arms tightened around me, although I doubted it was for a picture. "You okay, Heiress?"
I nodded against his shoulder. Jameson was close enough that I could lean my weight on him to ease the discomfort of my heels.
His voice was warm in my ear when he said, "We're almost done."
"We are?"
Jameson nodded, his chin rustling against the back of my head. "Just hang on, 'kay?"
I didn't have the energy to nod a second time. As Claude continued ordering us around, I bit back a groan. All I wanted was to head back to our hotel and fall asleep promptly in Jameson's arms. Taking pictures after sightseeing all day had surely been a mistake.
"Avery," Claude said in his thick accent, "take a few steps forward."
I complied without a complaint, but was surprised that Jameson didn't follow me. The absence of his arms around me was miserable.
Since Claude seemed intent on taking some pictures of just me, I assumed my boyfriend had moved to the side. However, when a few pedestrians starting gaping, I had to force my gaze to not travel towards their spectacle. What made me uncomfortable, though, was that they seemed to be looking in my direction. Unable to help myself, I risked a glance at a blonde tourist, whose mouth was forming the shape of an "O."
Thankfully, she didn't seem to be looking at me.
However, her gaze was awfully close to where I was standing . . .
"S'il vous plait, Mademoiselle," Claude pleaded. "Look at the camera."
This time I had to bite my tongue in order to not argue. Claude took a few more photos, each of which included the Eiffel tower soaring above my shoulder. To me it seemed an odd angle, but I didn't stop him. Over and over, I had to remind myself that I was here for my mom.
France had been her favorite place.
But even so, my feet were killing me. I had to ask, "Are we almost done?"
