That’s terrifying.
There’s a sharp knock at the door, which yanks me right out of my thoughts. It’s not closed, and when I glance over, Aiden’s standing in the door frame, waiting for permission to come into his own room.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
He grins. “It’s your room. I’m not going to barge in here.”
There’s no use in arguing with him, because even though I think this arrangement is stupid—it makeswaymore sense for me to be upstairs near Phoebe—I understand why he did it.
At least I think I do.
“Come on,” I say, waving him in.
His cheeks are pink from the cold, and he’s still got on his ranch coat and boots from being outside. I wish he still had on his cowboy hat, but it’s probably hanging on a hook by the door.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, crossing the room.
Before my brain can process fast enough to close the laptop, he’s beside the bed. Since I know he’s gotten a glimpse, I inwardly scream and panic. Then smooth it all down, because there’s no point in making this a big deal.
This was abusiness transaction.
Even my subconscious doesn’t buy that protest. We agreed the ceremony was for us, and the photos are our witnesses.
“Wedding photos,” I answer, in a highly unconfident voice.
“I forgot we don’t have to wait on them since they’re on your camera. Can I see?”
I appreciate that he’s asking, even though I can’t tell him no. I might not want him to see the emotions that are clear as day between us, but that’s not his fault. Or his problem.
It’s mine.
I tip my head up to tell him to join me, but the words die on my lips. His face is softer somehow, and dare I say, hopeful?
And that makes honesty fall straight from my lips.
“I’ve been marking my favorites,” I whisper.
Why would you tell him that?
“You already have favorites?” His grin shifts into something more boyish, and my heart melts a little more.
I pat the space beside me, and he sits on the edge of the bed. I scoot closer so he can see the screen, then go back to the beginning of the gallery so he can see it all.
This is something I always do alone, so it feels strange to do it with him beside me. I didn’t take these photos, but it still feels like I’m putting a piece of myself on display that I usually wouldn’t.
“I didn’t know Harper was so good at this,” I say, trying to lessen the emotional weight crushing my chest. “I might have found a backup job for her in case her cafe doesn’t work out.”
“This is what you do?” He points to the filmstrip at the bottom of the screen, which contains all the image thumbnails, then drops his hand back into his lap. “You always go through this many photos?”
“Every session is different. Some have more images than others. But yes, and then I edit them. And I download them so I can create a client gallery.”
I swallow. It seems like an easy job, I guess. But it’s not.
Methodical, maybe, but not easy.
“But you capture memories for them. Moments they’ll only see in their heads otherwise.”
“I do.”
