I scribble in my notebook—bullet points and summaries—before moving on to the last question.
“And beyond birds and nature, is there anything else you’d like to specialize in? As in, something you’d like to start photographing more?”
Rowan goes quiet at my question; I can no longer hear the sound of his breathing. Looking up from my paper, I find him staring straight at me. And the look in his eyes, combined with his parted lips, put me right in front of the lens again.
The sound of the shutter, the sudden burst of light from the flash. The way he stood behind the viewfinder and watched me with such need, as if just seeing me there through the lens was enough to berevolutionary.
“I…” He does not continue. But I know what he wants to say, and I can understand why it’s impossible to put into words.
He’d like to take more photos of me. Something about it touches him—something about giving me that piece of him, or maybe it was taking that piece of me, really seems to dig itself deep.
“Rowan,” I start, and he sits up straight, anticipating either a very difficult conversation or something incredibly intense.
Therefore, impossible to bear. The same way the entirety of Friday night was impossible to bear.
“Yes?” he asks, and his voice is breathless. Startled.
“Did you print that picture you took?”
I can’t miss the small smile that breaks through his nervous exterior as he says, “Developed, but yes.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay. And did you figure it out?” My own voice drops an octave or two, and just when I think he understands me, those confused eyes find mine again.
“Figure what out?”
I take a deep breath, and then I say, “If I took a piece of you, or if you took a piece of me.”
Rowan’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open and then closed once. And then twice. After a moment, he seems to come to a decision.
“Can it not be both?”
The sudden spike in temperature does not go unnoticed. My body heats, and I can find no way out of this new environment unfolding between us.
Now. Sink your claws in now, something in my brain is screaming.
“That night,” I start again, and Rowan swallows hard. “It was… different. Was it different for you, too?” I know he said it was intense at Tabitha’s Place, but that could mean anything. Rowan nods.
“Yeah. It was different.”
“Do you know why?” I wasn’t planning on asking that question, as I doubt he does.
No one really knowswhywhen it comes to attraction or emotion. But there is still some part of me that is unsure andconfused by this sudden onslaught of emotion, and I just want an answer. One that nobody but myself can give.
Rowan says nothing. He stares at me as a deer does when caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Like he’s about to die.
“I mean,” I continue. “Does it make sense to you? Because it doesn’t make sense to me. And I… I want it to.”
There we go. Honesty is the best policy.Sometimes.
Rowan nods.“I think we could make it make sense.”
Oh shit. Does that mean what I think it does?! Is he flirting? Is he asking to fuck me again?
My mind is racing a mile a minute as I watch him. A blush is creeping up his neck and over his strong jaw, all the way to his smooth cheeks.
