Page 79 of One Last Thing Before You Go

“I don’t know, but this woman does.”

He pushes my hair away from my face, cupping it gently between his strong hands. “I only care about the woman right here in my arms.”

Heart flipping in my chest, my smile falls. Already I feel myself getting too attached to him, my mind racing with images of what my life will look like after he leaves this town—leaves me. Everything will go back to normal; nothing will have changed. Not really. So why the hell does the thought cause a yawning void in my chest that almost leaves me breathless?

“Does it bother you or something? That I have a vibrator?”

“Hell no.” A wicked grin spreads quickly across his face. “I think it’s hot. Actually, I think we should incorporate Henry. Invite him to participate from time to time. Have a little ménage-a-vibe.”

I laugh at him, but he ignores me and reaches for his camera on my nightstand.

Immediately, I become the subject of his photographs once again.

“I look like a mess.”

“You don’t look like a mess.” He kisses my neck, breathing me in as if his life depended on it. “Also, it’s my job to find and photograph beauty in everything. If I can find it in the most difficult of places, what makes you think I can’t find it in the most amazing woman on the planet? Especially when she looks so incredible in the mornings.”

My heart. It aches and I can’t breathe, I can’t move. All I can think of is how much I want to stay in his arms. All I can think of is how badly I want to run away.

“We’ve never really talked about your work,” I say, needing to change the subject while doing my best to keep my voice level and breathing steady. My heart, I realize, is a lost cause as it beats wildly against my ribs.

“What about it? I take pictures for a living.” He says it matter-of-factly, as if he were no more than a passport photo photographer, and not the award-winning photojournalist I know him to be.

I snort. “Yeah, but I only know the basics. I want to know why you got into it, for example. What made you want to pursue it enough to fight Walter on it? How did you get started?”

“Ah, well. Walter gave me my first camera—his camera—when I met him and came to town to take care of me. A Nikon with actual film—very old school.” I laugh softly, marveling at how “old school” film sounds to him. I’m sure he barely even remembers what “one hour photo” really means. “I found it in one of his boxes when he was moving into his place when he first came to town. I started playing around with it and he just gave it to me.”

“Did he teach you how to use it?”

He nods before taking a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s kinda how we bonded at first. And then he’d take me hiking around the area and we’d take pictures. It was… kinda our thing. Then he got me my first professional camera when I turned sixteen—used. But it was perfect. It changed everything for me. Started participating in competitions and stuff and…” He shrugs. “Yeah, I was good at it.”

“Why did you choose to travel? To do photojournalism?”

He raises an eyebrow at me like it’s the dumbest question. “I get to travel to remote places on another person’s dime doing something I love. What’s not to love?”

But I don’t buy it. “There’s something else; that’s not why you did it,” I accuse him, narrowing my eyes at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, carefully considering his words. He scratches the back of his head and grimaces before saying, “I… I guess, in the end, I knew I didn’t have a home to go back to after art school. Mom was living somewhere new, Walter and I weren’t on speaking terms, and nowhere felt like home. So I made everywhere my home.” His voice is muted and soft as he speaks, a tinge of regret in his words.

“You never wanted to stop and be in one place?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Maybe. Just not used to it, you know. Never had that. Except for those few years with Walter. In the end, it seemed easier to just travel. I’d done it before.” He scowls and looks away, jaw tense.

I sit up, covering my chest with the sheet as my hair falls over one shoulder. “Show me.”

He looks up at me with a questioning brow. “Your photos, I mean.”

His smile is lopsided, fingers playing with the ends of my dark hair. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”

“Ready for what?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Ready for the pictures to speak to you.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I deadpan.

“Nope.”

“Not even your old ones?”