“Because I’m about as unartistic as they come.”
I glance in the rearview when I see motion behind us. Another car, a family of four. My instincts are always alert. Mira is watching us quietly with wide, fascinated eyes. I think she knows something is going on here. Something special, no matter how many times I tell myself to calm the fuck down.
“So you’re like an artist documentarian?” Elle says dryly. “You’re investigating our strange ways?”
“Sure,” I say. “If you want to think of it that way. Or I’m just interested.”
I take the final turn, and the forest breaks away to a road. Gunnison Peaks sits in a slight dip surrounded by hills and mountains, the clear sky bright blue as we drive past thewelcomesign.
She shrugs again. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a photographer. One of my first memories is of me begging…” She swallows.Mom and Dad, she was going to say, but even that is too painful for her. “For a disposable camera. It was like magic to me. The world viewed through a lens.Find a light. That was what I used to say, even back then. Find the light, find the shot. It was amazing.”
She folds her arms, lower lip jutting as if she’s angry with herself for thinking of those memories. “It’s all pointless now, anyway.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because who cares about photography?” she hisses. “It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter. I need to live in the real world, get an actual job, stop pretending that there’s even a slight chance I could make a living as a photographer.”
“I think you coul?—”
“You haven’t seen my work, Rhett,” she cuts in. “For all you know, I’m terrible. Anyway, I haven’t picked up a camera…”
Since her parents. Since Conti took everything.
“You should probably focus on driving,” she says, eyes focused on the road ahead.
I grit my teeth. She says she could be terrible, but hearing the passion in her voice, I know she’s not. I don’t need to see her work. She lit up for me then, her enthusiasm clear. I shouldn’t be thinking like this, but I want to draw out that passion. Make her feel safe so she feels free to explore her craft again.
Instead, I do as she says. Focus on driving.
And bury all this deep in my gut.
CHAPTER 6
ELARA
The lawyer’s office is closed. A note on the door says he had to run out for an errand, and he’ll be back in thirty minutes. I chew the inside of my cheek, then forcibly stop myself. That’s a bad habit I picked up after… everything.
Mira clutches my hand tightly, the way she always does when we’re in public, flinching as people walk by. But she seems less skittish than usual. That might have something to do with the six-foot-tall, rugged man standing on my other side, his dark eyes constantly on me, as if he’s waiting for me to fess up to something.
He makes it too easy for me to snap, for buried emotions to surface and wreak havoc on me. There’s just something about him that makes it difficult to pretend, to act like everything is okay.
“The diner across the street makes good pancakes,” he says, voice husky. “My treat.”
Mira tugs on my hand and looks up at me hopefully. “Can we, Sissy?”
I agree… for her sake. I tell myself. Anything that keeps Mira talking and not buried in her shell is a good thing.
“Sure,” I murmur. “We’ll keep an eye on the place while we eat.”
The three of us walk across the street. A group of women are power walking down the sidewalk in sports gear, hair and makeup perfect despite the exercise, fitReal Housewivestypes. All five of them gape at Rhett like he’s a male model on the cover of a romance novel. One of them even lets her mouth fall open.
Fine. Let them ogle him. It means nothing to me.
So why do I feel like snapping at them to cram their protein shakes down their skinny throats and mind their own business?
The diner has a retro feel. In the corner, there’s a row of arcade machines. Mira gasps and looks up at me. “Can I, Sissy?”
“I don’t have any cash,” I tell her regretfully.
