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His voice is low and rough. “How about that tour tonight, Willow? I know a great overlook to watch the sunrise. You’d be able to get some beautiful shots there.”
God, every single cell in my body is humming in tune . . . Yes.
Luckily, I have one single, solitary, lonely brain cell that hasn’t been completely lost in the waves of Bobby Tannen pheromones the rest of me is swimming in. That one cell is screaming that I know better than this. Sure, maybe I’m interesting in an out-of-towner-fresh-meat challenge sort of way. But let’s be real. While I’m only here for a few months at most, it’s going to be awkward as hell when I fall under Bobby’s sway only to be left in the dust when I’m not shiny and new anymore. And there will still be the shows, where I’ll have to watch him sing in that no-big-deal, casually sexy way and feign nonchalance as women throw themselves at him. I’ll have to pretend I’m the sort that’s cool with a fling when I’m not. I’m so not.
And that’s my answer right there.
I untangle my fingers from his, pulling back. “Bobby, thank you. Truly. But I’m not here for . . .” My tongue ties at the heat radiating off him in waves. Anger? Disappointment? Shock? Something heavier, maybe? “I’m here for Unc, that’s it. I’m sorry.”
What the hell am I apologizing for? I don’t know, but it seems like the thing to say.
He nods, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and sets down a twenty. All in complete silence. It takes maybe three seconds, but it feels like three lifetimes.
“See ya soon, Willow. Sweet dreams.”
Hank’s is closed on Monday. Even Unc can’t go seven days a week. But Tuesday night, it’s burgers and fries across the bar.
“What made you want to be a photographer?” Bobby asks before taking a monstrous bite of his burger. He’s got on a blue shirt with a yellow logo that’s so faded I don’t know what it once said. Before he sat down, I saw worn blue jeans and dirt-kicker boots. He’s not dressed up tonight, but he still looks good. If I nuzzled into his neck, I think he’d smell like sunshine, sweat, and sex. Even though I’m across the bar, I take a deep breath, wondering if I can catch a whiff and confirm that hopeful dream.
I take out my phone, snapping a shot of my lemon wedge-topped tea reflecting in the shine on the bar and highlighted by the neon-lit beer sign on the wall. A quick caption, Sweet tea is the new coffee, and the yum emoji, and then I post. I don’t even wait for the first heart or comment, putting my phone into my back pocket without a thought.
“I think I always was to some degree. Mom taught me to see the world through different lenses, literally holding up gel filters and introducing me to artists who painted from various perspectives. I drew when I was younger, was okay at it, but I couldn’t get the realism I wanted. I joined yearbook as a way to participate without having to actually, you know, participate. And the rest is history.”
I wave a French fry around like a wand that magically transported me from high school to this moment. Bobby grins wolfishly, catching my wrist in his hand. Before I know what’s happening, he’s snagged the fry from between my fingers with his teeth, literally eating it from my hand. His tongue snakes out to lick the salt from my fingertip, then he chews around a self-satisfied smile.
“What the?” I balk, wiping my fingers on a napkin. Secretly, I’m delighted, which is dangerous.
He doesn’t react, instead focusing on our conversation like what he did was completely normal. “I looked up your blog. I started going through all the pictures, and they were cool. You’re really talented, but I had to stop.”
He swallows as if that’s some big confession.
My brow furrows. “Why?”
His fingers dance on the bar top, and again, I wonder if he’s playing a song or doing it randomly. “It felt . . . intrusive. Like if you were just this anonymous person, it’s a peek into your day to day life. I get that, it’s what you’re intentionally doing. But since I know you and want to know more about you, it felt creepy. I want you to share those stories with me willingly, not learn about you from whatever you put online. Does that make sense?”
He shakes his head like he uttered complete nonsense.
I feel like it was pretty profound. Both that he gets why I do what I do and that he wants more than the snippets of me I share publicly. He wants more than more. I get the feeling he wants it all. All of me. The question is . . . why?
