“I might call you,” he said.
“I might not answer.”
“Then, you might end up wondering what you’re missing out on.”
“We would be a bad idea, Brody.” The only thing the two of us have caused in the past is trouble.
“And if I shave?” he questioned.
I bit down on my bottom lip and shrugged. I hated the sparks running through my body. I hated that it seemed like no time had passed since we touched last. He was making me feel alive when I had felt dead for so long. Worst of all, I hated that I wanted him to text me. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll want to play with you again.”
“Like a game?” he asked.
“Sure—like a game. I’m unstoppable at winning games.”
“It’s on,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
“Or, maybe we can have our own bake sale,” he continued, lifting his brows. “You can bring cookies, and I’ll bring the milk.”
I laughed him off, dismissing his line with a shake of my head. “Okay, well … until then, keep it in your pants, Brody Pearson.”
Brody adjusted his pants as if responding to my comment. “Yeah, thanks. It’s been a memorable evening.”
“It always is with me.” With a quick wink, I left on that note as I walked away.
1
“Just one more shot,and I think I’ll be good,” I tell Marco, the owner of Chez Tru, the newest restaurant to open in this small area 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 press the power button to shut my camera off and slip it into my bag. I offer him a smile with the hope he will stop asking to see the raw images on a two-inch display. I don’t usually allowclients to view unfinished work before Iscrutinize which of the five-hundred photos is 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 to join 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 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. The desire to spout off my spiel is strong: 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 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. Mysights are set on the front door of the restaurant. I just want to get out of here. 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 jerk 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, we hide lies within subtle details. By the indent on your ring finger, I’d say you’re married and have been married for at least five years. Good night, Marco.”
I walk out the front door and take my keys out of my back pocket.Asshole.
I am not affected by this man. He is not worth a second thought.
I say I’m not affected, yet I jump a foot into the air when my phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
“God,” I groan, hitting the answer button before glancing at the display. I hear the video call chime, informing me I’m visible on camera while recovering from my two-second heart attack.
