I giggle and shake my head. Cavin looks at me for an explanation, as if I could possibly explain that I’m wondering why a professional photographer asking to do his literal job has him this wound up.
“You alright?” I ask quietly.
“Grand,” he mutters.
He comes up next to me, taller than I am, even with my heels on. Broad. And he smells so good as he casually wraps his arm around my shoulder, takes my hand in his, and we pose… like a couple in love. And it feels almost natural.
“Smile, Erin,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile. I wonder if it looks fake.
“Why did I say yes? And how many times do we have to do this?” I whisper to him.
“Oh, about a thousand,” he says, and then he chuckles.
And I remember the way his voice felt in my ear. I remember the way it felt being pressed up against the wall. I remember…allof it.
“Come, let’s get you a drink,” he says, then winks at me. My stomach flips again. But this time, this time it feels nice.
“I know, I know. Soda water or whatever for you.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?” He asks me two questions at the same time. Why do people do that?
“I can’t remember if I’ve eaten… I was all nervous, but I don’t feel hungry.”
“We need to get something in you,” he says protectively. “Come on, let’s go this way.”
And somehow, miraculously, he escorts me through the throng of people into a little quiet area, right outside on the balcony, without an interruption.
I let out a breath again.
“Bet you’d give anything for some yoga pants and a jumper right now,” he says. “And I’m sorry, this isn’t a vegetable samosa, but my mother did order some good food.”
I smile. “Is there anythingyoudon’t like to eat?” I ask him because I feel like if we’re going to be married and we’re going to be sharing space, I need to start knowing things about him.
“I’ll eat literally anything,” he says. “But the past few years, I’ve been busy traveling. You know, lots of restaurants and takeout and the like. And prison food will make you yearn for something good. I miss homemade food.” He pauses when I stare. “But we can get a chef or something, I don’t need?—”
“I know how to cook,” I tell him, nodding. “I like to cook. It’s soothing. Calming. And maybe stems from a little paranoia because when you cook for yourself, you know what’s going into your food.”
“Yes.” For him, he might wonder if someone’s poisoning it or whatever. For me, it’s an entirely different reason. “I respect that,” he says quietly.
Of course he does.
But then something shifts in his expression. His eyes scan the crowd behind me, sharp and assessing, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. It’s subtle—most people probably wouldn’t notice—but I do. There’s a hardness there, a wariness that doesn’t match the easy conversation we were just having.
“What is it?” I ask.
His gaze snaps back to me, and he forces a smile. “Nothing. Just keeping an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Everyone,” he says simply, but the way he says it makes my skin prickle. “Everything.” Like he’s expecting something, and he doesn’t trust anyone here.
Before I can ask more, a crowd of younger girls eyes him with nothing short of adoration. I remember how, back in St. Albert’s, the girls there would have worshipped him like he was some kind of hero.
“Put that away,” one of them hisses quietly, looking nervously over her shoulder at Cavin. “He’s right there.”
