“Wait for me!” Mason shouts, but I pick up the pace.
Nearly three hours later,my hand rests on the textured bark of the massive magnolia tree. It still boastsdeep green leaves since it’s an evergreen, and it’s my favorite tree to come visit during the winter months.
Mason slowed me down big time. Mr. Performer isn’t as in shape as he thought he was. But I have to admit, the climb was spectacular, and it was amazing to flex my muscles like this again. The last hike I did was three months ago, and I’d been itching to get back out here, but I have been busy with the store while Hadley was gone and then planning her wedding and finally honeymooning.
“Finally,” Mason huffs, collapsing on his butt against the tree. “You do this often?”
“Every few months at least. Typically more than that, yes.”
I take in the view while slowing my breathing and heart rate. It’s a cloudless day, and the sun is bright overhead. You can see for miles at this top—miles of dirt, trees, lakes, and beautiful nature. I bend down and unzip my bag, stripping my white (now lightly stained with red dirt) tank off and placing it on top of my sweater. Digging in the second section of the bag, I grab my portable ring light stand. I won’t need the lighting today, but I do need something to hold the phone while I pose for pictures.
“What are you doing?” Mason asks as I set up the stand.
“I need to snap a few pictures to post to the boutique’s socials and website to advertise our athletic wear.”
He makes ahmphsound, and I dig back in my bag to find my hairbrush and lip gloss. The sheen of sweat coating my face can stay because it’ll look intentional for the types of photos I’m taking.
“I could just take your pictures.”
I jump at the nearness of Mason’s voice and my lip-gloss flies from my hand, bouncing on a rock, and then plummets over the cliffside.
“Dang it, Mason. Don’t approach a girl from behind without making your presence known.”
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “I have another tube somewhere in here.” I squat down and dig deeper into my bag, looking for the clear gloss. I wanted the soft pink, but no. My favorite tube is probably busted on a rock below somewhere.
“But still. I can take the pictures for you. It’d be easier so you don’t have to walk back and forth to adjust angles and such.”
Finding the clear gloss, I stand up and face Mason. “It’d probably take longer trying to instruct you on the fine art of photography.” I grin at my clever self.
“I’m a famous singer and musician, Vroom. I know how to take and to stage good pictures. Art in all its forms is not lost on me.”
My smile fades. Darn it. He’s not wrong…
“Fine. You get one chance, and if I don’t like it, you leave me be while I do my thing.”
He holds out an open hand. “Deal.”
With simmering anger surrounding a certain memory of when I held out a hand to him last, I act impulsively, swatting his hand away with the backside of mine.Man, that felt good.
“Whatever.” I tug my phone from the pocket of my leggings, open the camera, and slap it into his still-open palm.
As I turn my back to him to walk closer to the cliff’s edge, he lets out a massive sigh and whispers, “This is going to be tougher than expected.”
I choose to ignore the comment and instead search for the perfect photo spot by examining the angle of the sun, the shadows cast by the tree, and, well, where the cliff edge winds and curves because I don’t want to end up like my pink lip gloss.
Guilt tugs at my consciousness for smacking his hand away. It’s hard to reconcile the guilt to the empowering feeling of the action, so I conclude it’s best not to dwell too much on it right now. I brush through my hair and swipe gloss over my lips, then set the items out of view.
Picking out a spot, I direct Mason where to stand and the angle to capture the picture from. He does so without complaint or comment, but when I move to go view the picture, he holds up a hand.
“Wait. Let me stage one real quick.”
“I—”
“Before you protest, just let me do this one picture, okay?”
I grit my teeth. “Fine.”
