She leans back slightly, creating distance. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it,” I insist. “I mean it. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do with photography. Tell honest stories instead of selling fantasies.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for insincerity. “Now it’s your turn,” she says finally, her gaze landing on the camera sitting between us. “What’s your big dream?”
“A gallery, maybe,” I admit. The idea feels both huge and fragile out in the open. “I want to tell stories with images, not just… be one.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “People have a funny way of deciding who you are based on a single glance. They put you in a box.”
A look of profound understanding crosses her face. “Tell me about it,” she says, her voice low. And in that moment, I feel a connection so sharp and sudden it almost steals my breath.
Then she catches herself, straightening up. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—” She waves a hand vaguely. “I don’t usually share this much with strangers.”
“We’re not exactly strangers,” I say. “I mean, I’ve spilled coffee on you. That’s at least acquaintance level.”
She blinks at me. “I spilled coffee on you.”
“Right. Yes. You did.” I grin sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Talking. To you. Without putting my foot in my mouth.” I run a hand through my hair. “I swear I’m usually better at conversation. You just make me nervous.”
Her expression shifts, something uncertain flickering across her face. “Why?”
“Because you see through the bullshit,” I say honestly. “And that’s terrifying. And also kind of amazing.”
She looks down at her coffee, and I see the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. When she looks back up, her guard is still up, but there’s something softer underneath. “For a long time, I let someone else define who I was,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m trying to figure that out for myself again now.”
“I know that feeling,” I say, and the truth of the words hangs in the air between us.
She studies me for a moment, then asks, “Do you really? Know that feeling?”
The question catches me off guard. Most people would just accept the sympathy. “Yeah,” I say. “I do. My agent, Leo, he’s got this whole vision of who Wyatt Ford should be. The brooding romantic hero. Always on. Always performing. And the readers — the romance fans — they have their own ideas about who I am, too. What I should be like, how I should act.” I pause, realizing I’ve never said this out loud before.
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she says, “I was married for six years. My husband and his mother turned me into a project. A decorative asset, he called me.” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the pain underneath. “I’m in the middle of a divorce right now.”
The admission hangs between us. It explains so much — the wariness, the books, the tan line on her finger I noticed at the bookstore.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s awful. And for what it’s worth, he sounds like an idiot.”
A small, surprised laugh escapes her, and the sound is like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Yeah. He really is.”
I know I should probably leave it there, but I have to ask. I need to know. “Is there any chance of… I mean, do you think you might reconcile? Work things out?”
She looks at me like I’ve just suggested she set herself on fire. “Hell no,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in her voice. “It’s over. Over, over, over. The papers are filed, I’m officially separated pending divorce. I am single.” She pauses, her jaw set. “Just the legal side to finalize. But emotionally? I walked out that door, and I’m never going back.”
Thank fuck for that.The thought hits me with surprising force, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral.
The laugh transforms her face. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly. She’s still guarded, still ready to bolt, but something has shifted.
“Okay, real talk,” she says. “What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve had to do for a cover shoot?”
The question surprises a laugh out of me. “Oh god. Where do I even start? Outdoor shoot for a wilderness romance. Rugged outdoorsman vibes. I’m posing against a tree, trying to look all brooding and masculine, when a squirrel runs up my leg.”
“No.” Her hand flies to her mouth, but I can see she’s fighting a smile.
“Yes. I screamed like I was being murdered. Full-on horror movie scream. The photographer got the whole thing on video. It went viral. I’m pretty sure there are memes.”
A laugh bursts out of her, genuine and unguarded. “That’s amazing.”
