I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You could say that. My work… let’s just say it’s more about image than substance.” I run a hand through my hair. “It pays the bills, but it’s not what I want to be doing long term.”
“What do you want to be doing?”
Her directness is disarming. “I’m a photographer,” I say, the statement feeling both like a lie and the truest thing about me. “Or, I’m trying to be. I want to capture things that are real. My current job is so polished and fake. With a camera, I can catch the messy, beautiful, honest moments.”
I conveniently leave out the fact that the polished, fake job is modeling.
Her posture softens. The guardedness in her eyes lessens, replaced by a flicker of genuine interest. “A photographer?” she asks. “What kind of things do you like to shoot?”
The conversation flows easily after that. I’m struck by her intelligence, by the sharp mind that peeks out from behind her vulnerability. I find myself laughing, a real, easy laugh that feels foreign and wonderful. I’m not performing. I’m not charming her. I’m just… talking. And I’m completely captivated.
I notice the little things. The way the gold flecks in her eyes seem to dance when she talks about a book she loves. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking, a small, unconscious gesture that I find ridiculously endearing. I’m consciously tryingnotto be the romance hero. I just want to be Wyatt. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel a nervous flutter in my chest, a feeling I’d almost forgotten. I have a powerful, undeniable urge to make this woman smile again.
“I should probably go,” she says after a while, though she doesn’t sound like she wants to. “I have a lot to do.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “It was really nice to meet you…?” I let the question hang in the air.
“Snow,” she says, and then a faint blush colors her cheeks. “My name is Snow.”
“Snow,” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. It’s unusual, beautiful, and it fits her perfectly. “I’m Wyatt.”
As we walk toward the front of the store, she glances toward the main entrance. And that’s when she sees it.
There’s a massive promotional display, a mountain of glossy Historical Hearts romance novels. And in the center of it all, a life-sized cardboard cutout of me, bare-chested and brooding in that Highlander kilt.
I watch as her eyes lock onto the cutout, then flick back to my face. The recognition dawns, and the shift in her is instantaneous and devastating. The warmth in her eyes vanishes, extinguished as if by a switch. It’s replaced by a look of profound, weary disappointment. Her posture changes. She physically recoils, her arms crossing over her chest as if to shield herself.
“You’re… him,” she says, and the words are flat, toneless, almost an accusation. The easy, hopeful connection we just built shatters into a million pieces on the floor between us.
Before I can say anything, before I can try to explain that the cardboard cutout is a character, a job, not me, she’s grabbing her books. “I have to go,” she says, her voice clipped and distant. “Thank you for the coffee.”
She doesn’t look at me again. She turns and flees, a flash of honey-blonde hair disappearing out the door, leaving me standing alone next to my own two-dimensional, smoldering doppelgänger.
I watch her go, a mix of confusion and sharp intrigue twisting in my gut. I replay the last few moments, the look on her face. It wasn’t the star-struck awe I’m used to. It wasn’t the grabby excitement of a fan. It was disillusionment. She wasn’t disappointedinme, not really. She was disappointed by what I represented.
I have to see her again. I’m intrigued, not by a fan, but by the first woman who looked at the book cover hero and walked away.
Chapter 10
Wyatt
It’s been a month since the collision at the bookstore. A month of replaying that final, devastating moment when the fragile connection between us shattered against the cardboard image of my own stupid, brooding face. I’ve told myself a dozen times to let it go, to forget about the woman with the sad, determined eyes and the stack of self-help books. But her look of profound disappointment is seared into my memory. It was so different from the usual reactions I get. It was honest. And it’s the honesty that I can’t shake.
So here I am, sitting in the Seventh Street Café in Garden City. Again. The crumpled piece of paper she dropped when she fled the bookstore is still in my wallet. I picked it up after she’d disappeared through the door, thinking it might be something important. A note with a café name, a day, and a time: Seventh Street Café, Garden City. Tuesday, 10 AM. I pocketed it, didn’t think much of it at the time.
But I couldn’t forget about her. I lasted a week before I found myself casually driving past the café. Then I went in. Just for coffee, I told myself. Good coffee. Since then, I’ve been stoppingby once a week, maybe twice, different days and times, ordering a coffee, sketching in my notebook, pretending I’m not hoping to see a flash of honey-blonde hair through the window.
I tell myself I’m here for the coffee, which is genuinely good. I tell myself I’m here for a change of scenery, to get out of my loft and away from the lingering scent of darkroom chemicals. But I know I’m lying. I’m here because of her. The thought makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling I despise. It’s the kind of obsessive behavior I’ve seen in fans, and it makes my skin crawl to recognize a shadow of it in myself.
But this is different. It’s not about a fantasy. It’s about a mystery. Why was she so disappointed? What was it about my job, about that two-dimensional hero, that made her build a wall of ice around herself in a single, heartbreaking second? I’m nursing a black coffee, a sketchbook open on the small table in front of me, trying to look casual. I’m sketching the intricate pattern of the pressed-tin ceiling, but my eyes keep flicking to the door, a nervous, hopeful tic I can’t control.
And then, she walks in.
My heart gives a hard, sudden jolt against my ribs, a physical reaction that takes me by surprise. She’s wearing a soft, gray sweater and jeans, her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. There’s a determination in her posture. The fragile, hunted look from the bookstore has been replaced by a quiet, steely resolve. She doesn’t see me. She walks to the counter, her movements efficient and focused, and orders a coffee.
I watch her, my hand frozen above my sketchbook. This is my chance. But what do I say? How do I approach her without seeming like the creepy guy who followed her to her favorite café? I decide to let her make the first move. I’ll just sit here, and if she sees me, if she acknowledges me, then I’ll take that as an invitation. If she doesn’t, I’ll finish my coffee and leave, and that will be the end of it.
She turns from the counter, her coffee in hand, and scans the room for a place to sit. Her eyes pass over me once, a quick, dismissive glance, and my stomach plummets. She doesn’t recognize me. Or worse, she does, and she’s choosing to ignore me. But then her gaze returns, and her eyes widen slightly. I see a flicker of recognition, followed by a complex mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher. There’s surprise, yes, but also a hint of something else.
