“Uh, Rowan?”
“Huh?” His eyes widen, as if he’s afraid he’s missed something very important. What is he thinking about so deeply in my living room?
“Want to sit?” I gesture to the seat next to me. The couch is a two-seater, but we’ve been closer.
“Sure,” he says, sitting down as I suggested, but making sure to place himself as far from me as humanly possible.
He’s acting as if this is our first time interacting. As if I wasn’t sitting on his dick a few days ago.
“Okay. First question: When did the contest take place?”I begin my long list of very boring, very tedious questions.
Rowan answers them easily, unbothered and unconcerned. With each question, he seems to relax. His muscles become less tense, and his legs spread slightly. One arm rests casually overhis thigh, the other lying over the back of the couch, and he leans back slightly against the cushions.
“So,” I begin to ask now that I’ve tortured both of us with the last of the boring questions and we’ve cleared a whole box of pizza. “What inspired you to take up photography?”
“Uh,” Rowan stares at me, almost as if caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting such a personal question. “I’m not really sure. I guess…”
Rowan takes a moment to think, his dark brows furrowing in concentration. I allow myself the time to study the lines of his face—his strong, Greek-like nose, and his plump lips.
Something in me is stirring, is screaming at the realization thatthisman fucked me.
Jesus Christ, I’m so incredibly lucky. What would it take to get him to fuck me again? Just one more time. Just to see if it’d feel the same.
Those vivid green eyes turn toward me again.
“I guess,” Rowan continues. “It kind of started when I went hunting with my dad. I was eleven, and we were sitting in a tree a few miles from here. We were waiting for the deer to come out, staying as quiet as possible.”
A slow, soft smile plays at his lips as he speaks. The memory seems to be a pleasant one for him.
“Sounds rough to sit up there in silence for so long,” I say, mostly to let him know I’m paying attention, and he shrugs.
“Not really. My parents and I… we weren’t really talkers. So sitting in silence with them is normal for me. But anyway, I was sitting in the tree, and Dad was focused on the ground, keeping his eyes peeled. But I was focused on the branches around me.”
“Were there deer in the trees?” I don’t mean for it to come out. It’s a dickish, snooty thing to say. But sarcasm runs in my blood, and I simply can’t help myself.
We’re playing the part of the angel, remember?
But Rowan just tilts his head and gives me a confused smile.“No, silly. But there are birds. And across from us, on a tree branch not too far away, sat a beautiful little bluebird.”
Visions of his website flood my mind: beautiful sunsets and soaring bluebirds. Rowan’s eyes seem faraway now, gaze set on a wall behind me.
“You really like birds, huh?” I ask him, and he chuckles.
“Yeah, I do. I like the idea they represent. Being able to fly away, the freedom they have. And bluebirds… they’re protectors. Did you know that?” he asks me.
When his eyes meet mine again, something in them tells me that he feels a connection to that.That he himself is a protector, and maybe he craves a sense of freedom inaccessible to a human.
“No,” I whisper. I’m unable to speak any louder under the weight of his gaze.
“You wouldn’t think so just by looking at them," he continues. "But they are. And that day, I remember looking at that bird and falling in love with the idea of it. I wanted to capture it, and if not with my hands, then a picture would do. And once I picked up that camera some time later, I never put it down. So I guess that is what inspired me.”
I’m staring. I know I am—but I can’t stop. Rowan looks so relaxed now, so utterly at peace in my space that I want to keep him here forever.
And this, in itself, is new for me. I feel as if I’m vibrating out of my own skin just watching him.
“Do you plan on keeping this career until you retire?” I move on, desperate to break this spell.
“Yeah, I guess so. Unless I find something else I love.”
