We stared each other down for a minute before he turned and made his way to the office in the back.
I pivoted back to the window where my shot waited. The light had drifted, catching the curve of the wine glass and scattering across the brass inlay of the sculpture beneath it—the old winebarrel I’d used as a stand. The carvings were there all along; I was seeing them now.
I stepped closer.
“Who wants Manchego and a better attitude?” Jordan called, emerging from the walk-in fridge with a plate of cheese samples.
I laughed, then I adjusted the frame, leaned in, pressed the shutter.
Click.
This time, I didn’t second-guess it.
***
As the afternoon wore on, my confidence climbed.I could do this, I thought, falling back into the familiar rhythm of photographing still life—the quiet, predictable kind that didn’t blink or move or ask to see the back of the camera. It felt good to have purpose, even if it was only for Jordan’s social media feed. And now, with the golden light flooding in through the front windows, it was time to graduate to the hard stuff. People.
“Jordy,” I called, dragging a pair of rustic barstools into position around one of the high-tops by the window. I’d already staged the shot—two crisp wine glasses, a tiny but adorable charcuterie board, folded napkins that looked impossibly casual in a curated kind of way. “You and Doyle get out here. This light is unreal.”
Jordan poked his head out from behind the bar, arms full of packages, and made a face. “Your brother’s knee-deep in invoices. I don’t think he’s leaving that cave anytime soon.”
“Just try,” I pleaded as I crouched low, testing shadows and shifting the angles. I had maybe two minutes of that perfect, glowy light. If I could get them in position, the whole scene would come to life.
Jordan sighed and ducked into the back, murmuring a few words that were met with a familiar, stubborn grumble. No surprise there—Doyle couldn’t take a break if it came with a bow and a paid invoice attached.
Footsteps echoed behind me as I angled the wine glasses again, chasing the way the light curved across the glass. “Let’s go, people. The sun waits for no one.”
“Wow,” came a voice that slid into my spine, warm and amused. “Those invisible people you’re shooting look like they’re having a great time.”
I turned on my heel, already smiling, and spotted Charlie walking in, two crates of empty bottles balanced in one arm. The late afternoon sun angled low between the buildings, spilling through the front window and catching his tousled auburn hair, gilding the curls that had slipped free from beneath his backward cap. His green eyes met mine, calm and steady, holding a hint of curiosity that made me forget, for a second, to keep my distance.
“Very funny,” I muttered, gesturing toward the crates. “What are you doing? Building a wine spaceship? Should I be concerned about your hobbies?”
That smirk bloomed—slow and crooked and a little bit dangerous. “Maybe you’ve got more of the artist’s streak than you think, darlin’.” He nodded toward the table, where the light had pooled in a perfect golden spotlight. “You’re not wrong about this, the angle’s perfect. This shot would look great online.”
“I’m going to miss it,” I groaned, sinking onto one of the barstools. “The good light’s fading and my models are a no-show.”
Charlie set the crates on a lower table, then surveyed the setup. “I assume you don’t have a tripod?”
“I have a timer.”
He held out a hand. “Then hand it over and sit.”
Our fingers brushed for a second, and a jolt went straight through me. I ignored it and slid the camera into his hand. Charlie adjusted the lens, balanced it on the crates, then sat across from me.
I blinked, trying to figure out what to do with my hands—or my face—or the walking contradiction sitting across from me, suddenly acting all cooperative.
He leaned forward and gently turned my chin toward him with two fingers. “Look at me. Pretend I just said something funny.”
But I couldn’t—not because he hadn’t, but because everything in me had suddenly gone still, and all I could do was stare.
He chuckled low in his throat, reset the timer, and dropped back into his seat, this time arranging my hand beneath my chin. “Alright, then. Don’t fake a laugh, I’m not that funny, anyway—lots of dad jokes and bad innuendos. Maybe pretend you don’t hate me. You can manage that for ten seconds.”
I snorted out a laugh despite myself. “I don’t hate you, I barely know you.”
He reached over again, adjusting the placement of my other hand so it rested lightly against the base of the wine glass. His own hands landed on the table, broad and steady, curling around his glass in a way that made the whole image feel—real.
The timer began to click, slow at first, then faster.
