Millionaire Cowboy Seeks Wife. Terry Mclaughlin

peered down with his pouchy, basset-hound eyes. “Yes, I can make a moment. I am learning to make many moments, and to have much patience these days.”

      Fitz shot a glance over his shoulder at Van Gelder, who was harassing a grip. “You ought to be a real pro in a couple of months.”

      He reached behind him and dragged Jody forward. “This is Jody Harrison, a student of photography.”

      Krystof nodded slowly. “How do you do, Miss Harrison?”

      “How do you do, Mr. Lazz—”

      “Laszlofi. It’s Hungarian. All the best cinematographers are Hungarian,” he said before launching into a discussion of shutters and settings. Jody nodded at the appropriate moments and asked the right questions, but she sneaked a cross-eyed glance Fitz’s way to share the pain of the technical tedium.

      He grinned back at her. Cute kid.

      Damn if he didn’t feel that funny tug in his chest again. He tipped his hat back a bit. “Lunch break. Coming, Krys?”

      “In a minute.”

      “Jody?”

      “Me?” She pointed at her bony chest, and then at Fitz. “Eat lunch with you?”

      “If you don’t have any other plans.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and angled his head back toward the white vans. “Come on. Keep me company, Jody Harrison.”