Papa keeps looking for two more inches. The breakfast entrées Lance created the next morning looked great as Rese captured them for the Web site. Crepes, almond focaccia, and frittata di carciofi—artichoke omelets he served earlier—and, of course, the lasagna. She took the close-ups, then said, “Now stand there and hold the focaccia.” “What for?” “I’m including a picture of the chef.” He folded his arms. “C’mon.” She looked up over the camera. “Bashful?” “I’m not wearing my diamond.” She snorted. “Like that would matter.” She held up the camera and snapped one, then another. “Could you smile?” She snapped again. The man looked good through a lens. Okay, he’d look good through anything. “Now one with your guitar for the promo poster, and then we will get your room.” “I cleaned it for the occasion.” “Good.” “Just don’t open the closet.” “Skeletons?” He scowled. “Sybil asked that too. Do I look like a don?” “It’s the pirate thing.”
