“Nothing serious. I liked art.”
I waited, eyebrows raised. When he just sat there looking smug, I leaned forward.
“That’s it? Come on, Eric. I entertained all your job advice. Don’t I deserve more than I liked art?”
His deep chuckle vibrated through me. “Fine. Photography, mostly.”
Still holding back. The man enjoyed riling me up, making me beg for more. When I maintained my patient smile, he sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.
“I loved taking pictures.” His voice dropped, becoming reverent. “Something about being behind a lens. Seeing the world through a hidden eye. You might see something every day, but when it’s captured with the right light, the right angle, on the right film, it becomes something new. I could tell whole stories with a single shot. Create new realities.”
The passion in his voice, the way his eyes lit up. This was Eric stripped bare. Not the corporate drone or the dutiful son, but the artist he’d buried beneath obligation.
“I’d love to see your work.”
“I haven’t touched a camera in years. There’s nothing to show you.”
“Take one now.” I nodded toward his phone.
He laughed, the sound rough. “With that?”
“Why not?”
Eric studied me, something shifting in his expression. When he looked at his phone then back at me, heat flared in his eyes. “Okay. But you’re going to be my subject.”
My stomach dropped. Me and cameras were natural enemies. I always looked ridiculous.
Eric must have read my hesitation because he stood, suddenly towering over me. His hand wrapped around my wrist, not quite gentle, and pulled me to my feet.
“Come on.” His voice was pure command, leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to lose some of those clothes.”
My forgotten dinner seemed irrelevant as I let him lead me toward my bedroom, my pulse hammering at the promise in his voice.
Chapter Twenty
Jamie
Even with a simple phone camera, Eric’s photos were gorgeous. Somehow, he managed to make me look not just normal, but actually pretty.
I’d worried he might push for something smutty—and honestly, I wouldn’t have argued too hard—but he kept things classy. Despite being in my bedroom, I never felt objectified.
He really was an artist, and the dimpled smile lighting his face told me that tapping into his creativity made him incredibly happy.
This was what he should have been doing all along, not analyzing profit margins for Big Pharma in New York.
With just one impromptu photo session, he transformed into someone lighter, more alive. It was impossible not to get swept up in his enthusiasm.
This whole day had been perfect. If anyone had told me yesterday that I’d feel this uplifted and guilt-free, I’d never have believed them.
Maybe it was finally being comfortable in my hometown again, or maybe all the amazing sex had knocked something loose in my brain. My disposition had shifted so dramatically I could barely keep up with myself.
Worry seemed like something I should be doing but couldn’t remember why.
Eric seemed just as uplifted. The only shadow I’d seen cross his face was during our early morning talk about Caleb and Day Zero. That was some seriously scary stuff. No wonder he’d been doing whatever he could to distract himself.
What kind of state would I be in if our roles were reversed?
I couldn’t imagine. But I understood his need to stay occupied, to focus on something other than medical jargon and battling a disease with willpower alone.
