There’s no denying that there’s an instant attraction here. I’ve never felt that way about anyone I’ve met just because I thought they were beautiful, though, so it’s hard to fathom the intensity.
My mind starts spinning, and I mindlessly grab a random book off the shelf for myself to stop the overthinking.
It doesn’t work.
Book in hand, Izzy spins on her heel and walks to her spot on the end of the couch. Putting as much distance between us as possible, I settle on the opposite corner of the sectional.
The moment she leans back, pulls the blanket over her body, and opens to page one, I wish I would have let her pick one out herself instead of recommending that one.
If she hates my favorite book, this is going to be a long weekend.
Chapter Seven
Izzy
The first hourwas awkward at times, curiosity getting the best of the both of us with a few stolen glances in each other’s direction. We each splayed out on opposite ends of the couch. Him, with the fuzzy buffalo plaid blanket draped over his body. Me, cuddled up with the light gray knitted one. Him, with his legs stretched out along the entire length of his side of the sectional. Me, with my knees curled up toward my chest.
The storm outside is as black as the cast iron skillet sitting on the stove now. I like the ominous darkness, though. There’s something therapeutic about it. The lamp in the corner of the living room still provides enough light for reading, and the flames from the fire flicker and dance, casting little bursts of lustrous shadows on the ceiling.
I enjoyed the silent readathon until now. The main character’s husband just died in my book—not even a few chapters in. Well, he technically disappeared for an extended period of time and never returned home. But I think I know what that means.Gonewas as good asdeadin the Old West, I learned.
With a soft sigh, I let the open book fall forward on my chest. I turn my head, leaning back and resting my cheek on the pillow that’s propped up on the armrest of the couch behind me.
Ledger seems unfazed, keeping his focus on the book in his hand. His breaths are slow and even. He clenches his jaw every so often, but his posture is relaxed. One arm behind his head. One knee bent, and one straight.
My nonchalant side-eyeing has turned into full-on staring.
I squint, slowly assessing him while trying to narrow in on what it is that makes him so handsome. It’s the angle to his jaw, I think. Maybe his broad shoulders or heavy-set brows? When he removes the hand that was behind his head, turns the page in his book, then lifts it back to his head to run it through his hair, I have my answer. The hair for sure.
It’s a deep chocolate brown. Wavy but not curly. Long—maybe too long. Full, and slightly disheveled.
My eyes slam shut.
This man is a stranger, not a Marlboro Man poster to lust over.
Go back to your damn book and stop checking him out.
Ignoring my inner thoughts, a reckless idea sparks. I don’t have enough time to wonder if it’ll anger him as I slowly reach my hand down to the floor.
The closest luggage is right at the foot of the couch, within easy reach. There are tens of thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment packed in here, but I grab the disposable camera tucked in the side pocket. I keep several of them with me on my travels.
Unlike the modern ones with settings, screens, and memory cards . . .everyphoto on a disposable camera counts. There’s something magical about the snap and click, followed by no instant preview. The curiosity of waiting to see your shots is my favorite part, though. No matter how grainy or blurry some turnout, there’s always a few special ones in the mix that feel less like a fleeting moment in time and more like a meaningful keepsake.
As quietly as I can, I bring the camera up to my face, lining up my vision through the tiny lens. I silently thank myself for always winding it up before I put it away in case I want to grab it and take a picture as quickly as possible.
He’s still reading, and based on his unchanged body language, he hasn’t noticed what I’m doing. I take the opportunity to tilt the camera up a notch. With a less detailed shot in mind, I position the dark outline of his body in the bottom third of the frame, showing off the low-lit bookshelf behind him.
I hold my breath.
Click.
Instead of whipping his head in my direction, he takes his time raising an eyebrow and looking over at me without turning his face.
I lower the camera and roll my lips into my mouth.
He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway. “Did you just take a picture?”
“Yes.”
