Brett pushes the stroller down the sidewalk a few feet and stops in front of our white picket fence, the one he hand-built after we got married. With a cheek to cheek smile, he waves, hurrying me to come outside and join them in the life we built together. I place the last dish on the drying rack and rush outside, leaving nothing behind but the memories of waiting for the view I only wanted to be a part of.
I walk through the gate of our fence and take the stroller from Brett’s hands as we make our way down the street of our perfect neighborhood, meant for a perfect husband and wife, and two perfect children. It may not be perfect to anyone else, but this is my perfect. This is my dream and my wish come true.
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BOURBON on the ROCKS
CHAPTER ONE
"Just one more shot, and I think I'll have enough," I tell Marco. He's the owner of Chez Tru, the newest restaurant to open in the vicinity of this small town of Lakebridge, Vermont. I've been shooting portraits of steaming food for nearly four hours, and I feel nothing but starvation. I was hoping maybe Marco would offer me a sample after capturing the photos, but no such luck.
"I can't wait to see the outcome," Marco says, running around behind me to sneak a peek at the display on my camera.
"I should have the raw photos uploaded by tomorrow, but the edits will take a few days," I tell him, pressing the power button.
I slip my camera into my bag and offer him a smile with the hope he will stop asking to see the raw images on a two-inch display. I have a thing about allowing clients seeing unfinished work before I have had a chance to scrutinize which of the five-hundred photos are suitable for editing. "Very well," he says, huffing with a sigh. "As soon as you have anything to show me, please send a sample along. I'm very eager."
Marco is breathing over my shoulder, and the warm air puffing from his lips makes me shiver. He's in my bubble. I take a step away and face him as I zip up the lens pocket of my bag. "Absolutely," I tell him.
"Journey, might I ask you if you would be interested in joining me for dinner this evening?" His question shouldn't stun me after spotting the several lingering glances today when he thought I wasn't looking. He doesn't know that a photographer sees everything—every detail, including the indentation on his ring finger. Marco is probably my age or somewhere in his thirties, and he's a good looking man with full pockets. But, he's got this beard—which, I can't.
I feel the desire to spout off my spiel: first off, you own a restaurant … shave. Second, the whole wedding-band indent—what's up with that? Third, I'm emotionally unavailable to all suitable men. So um, sorry.
"That's kind of you to ask, but I should probably get working on these photos since you're so eager to have them back." I slip my leather jacket on and offer another phony smile to get my point across. I have my sights set on the front door of the restaurant. The street has minimal lighting, which makes the road darker than I like. "Oh, I'm sure they can wait a night," he says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I try to inhale a slow breath, hoping to calm myself, but it's no use. Marco is already touching me. I jerked my shoulder away and stare at the spot where his hand was resting, glaring at my covered shoulder as if it were burning.
"You should get home to your wife," I tell him, brushing by as I shuffle my bag onto my back.
"My wife?" He laughs as if my statement was a joke. I'm sure there's a chance it might be a joke to him, but I'm going with my gut, and my gut says he has a wife.
"I always say, lies are hidden within the subtle details. By the indent on your finger, I'd say you've been married for at least five years. Have a good night, Marco."
I walk out the front door and take my keys out of my back pocket. Asshole.
I am not affected by slimy men. They are stupid, and I am smarter.
I'm not affected, yet my feet are both off the ground when my phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
"Jes-us," I groan, hitting the answer button before glancing at the display. I hear the FaceTime chime, informing me that I'm on video while recovering from my two-second heart attack.
"I am not Jesus, but I can see why you'd confuse me for him." I hold the phone up and tilt my head to the side, glaring at Brody Pearson—my arch-nemesis, and sudden FaceTime stalker.
"I shouldn't have given you my phone number," I tell him for the fifth time since I gave him my number last week.
"Aw, come on. This is like the first time you haven't tried to hide a smile when I've called."
I press my lips together and smirk into what he is referring to as a smile. "Oh, you mean my resting-bitch-face?"
"Journey, wait up!" The voice carries down the street, and I wish I had been able to park closer to the entrance of the restaurant earlier, but there was a sale in the antique shop next door, so I had to park three blocks away.
I turn my face away from my phone, determining how much distance I have from Marco.
"Who's that?" Brody asks, his eyebrows arched with concern.
