As the opening music played, Sweeney turned her laptop screen in his direction. She’d pulled up the three she thought were the best of a bad—or exceptionally average anyway—bunch. ‘What do you think about these ones?’
Fin glanced at the screen, then reached for it as he asked, ‘These are for Mai?’
‘Uh huh.’
Balancing the laptop on his thighs, he scrolled between the three. They were action shots—two had kids only in the frame, while the third had both Fin and Donny and a girl called Lillian, whose face was puckered in concentration as she attempted to kick the ball on the fly. Of course, she’d missed and fallen on her ass, as the rapid-fire pics taken immediately after could attest, but this one was gold.
‘They’re great,’ he enthused, meeting her gaze. ‘Not bad for a landscape photographer.’
Sweeney shrugged. ‘They’re okay.’
His brow furrowed as he returned his attention to the screen. ‘Okay?’
‘The framing’s off and I need to be able to adjust for and incorporate movement more.’
‘But look at their faces—you captured such a range of expressions. Look at this kid’s tongue.’ He pointed to a freckly boy in the first picture, the tip of his tongue clamped between his lips as he’d tried to catch the ball. ‘That’s what it’s all about, right?’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded, staring at the face. She’d been so focused on the big picture issues, she hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the detail. But that tongue definitely told a story, and maybe that’s why these three pics had subliminally appealed the most.
He shot her a grin. ‘I reckon we’ll make a wedding photographer out of you yet.’
‘Ha.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘You take that back, Fin Murphy.’ He’d been with her several times over the years when people had asked her if she did weddings, and it had become a running joke.
She had nothing against wedding photographers, it was just that the thought of trying to manage multiple people with too many variables at stake—emotions, family dynamics, venue constraints, weather—gave her the heebie-jeebies.
In her current line of work there was usually only one variable—the weather. And that’s the way she liked it.
He laughed. ‘Or what?’
She almost said,‘Or I’ll tickle you.’She and Fin had been exceptionally ticklish as kids and it had always been her go-to punishment for him. Prior to Saturday night, she’d have said it without hesitation. And followed through because she knew where all his sweet spots were.
But everything was different now and perhaps, alone in this house in their pyjamas with his grandmother’s Claddagh ring on her finger, it wasn’t really appropriate anymore.
Which was probably the worst part of this whole thing—could her and Fin’s relationship ever get back to what it was prior to this ludicrous fake engagement?
Surely, it would always be this awkwardthingbetween them now?
‘Or I’ll knock on Janelle Pearson’s door and tell her you wrote poetry about her in grade eight.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t.’
Sweeney folded her arms. ‘Try me.’
‘That’s a low blow, Sweeney Bailey. I showed you those in confidence.’
‘My sweet, sweet Janelle, your name ringing softly tinkles like a bell, in my ears, my dear, as you near.’
He groaned then he laughed, shutting his eyes briefly before opening them again. ‘You’ve got a memory like an elephant, you know that?’
‘Even a goldfish would remember that travesty.’
‘You said they were good,’ he said, half laughing … half accusing.
‘I wasthirteen.’ She bugged her eyes at him. ‘What did I know about poetry?’
‘Fine.’ He huffed out a breath. ‘I take back the wedding photographer bit.’
A triumphant grin split her face. ‘Attaboy. Now, are we watchingLostor are you going to talk all the way through it?’
