The other was neat and prim in a way that practically shouted British before he opened his mouth. James brought Darryl over and made the introductions."I would like you to meet the extraordinary Ms. Cheryl Woodson, photographer, who is working for whom, Time?" Correct, plus USA Today and some others." She replied in an accent that came from somewhere south of Atlanta. It was so syrupy sweet that on some women, it would have been comical, but on her was as irresistible as a slice of pecan pie, and, Darryl suspected, about as good for you. It was Mae West meets Tobacco Road with a lap dancer's instinct for stroking a male ego. "And let me guess, Sugar. Well, no guess, I've seen your handsome face in pictures, and your work. You are the Pulitzer Prize photographer and James's protégée, Darryl Sanders. I'm right surprised to see you here; I thought you were Courtney Archer's very, very personal photographer?" I was. I quit." And Enrique Salcedo, photographer for Paris Match, I assume,". Yes, it was that long ago.This was a different Chrissy. She was about 175 and it looked like her long blonde hair came down half of that. She was wearing a thin summer dress that reached just above her knees. From there all the way down to her toes she was naked.Where were my thoughts going? Thinking about her naked.I looked at her face. That innocence is what I remembered.“Yes, please come in.” I said when I got my voice back. “I bet my cats love to see you again.”She was about to say something but then she stepped inside and past me. Her bare arm touched my chest and I think I saw goosebumps form on her skin. I closed the door and turned. Waiting for a second as I saw her walk to the living room. Her long hair hiding her ass and only showing glimpses of it as it swayed from left to right and back again.When I reached the living room she stood in the center of it. She was looking at the floor and fumbling with her fingers.“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.She looked up at me.
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