Page 16 of Hooked on Trouble

A man and his dog catch my eye, a bulging garbage bag by his feet. He’s asleep on a step, and his filthy shirt has ridden up, exposing sores on his side, red and seeping. The slope of his strong nose and long black hair tell me he’s First Nations, but I don’t know his story. I lift the camera hanging from my neck, hoping to conjure it.

Snap. His fisted hand by his chin.

Snap. His mangy dog resting its muzzle on his leg.

Snap. His gaunt face beside a newspaper article: Meatloaf Mondays.

A man knocks my shoulder as he hurries by, and I tug my purse closer. I’d rather not have a repeat of Wreck Beach. All personal property present and accounted for, I skirt around a lamppost. The smell of pizza wafts from a restaurant, and my belly rumbles, until the sickly-sweet scent of raw sewage overpowers it. Holding my breath, I hurry along, then stop short.

A couple of women have their backs to me, similar hair to mine. Squinting, I stare harder. Having black hair doesn’t mean one of them is Rose, but—there’s always a but—one of them could be. Every time I spot a woman with a familiar trait, my pulse taps a nervous beat. Would she be happy to see me? Pissed I tracked her down? Does she know I’m the reason our father beat her senseless the night before she left? She may hate me. She may not forgive me. But she’s my last chance to have an Unconditional Someone.

Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, Lily and Shay go home to their families. I’m always invited and often tagged along, but they aren’t my people. They don’t joke with me about childhood stories or boast about my accomplishments.

With my grandmother gone, Rose is all I have left.

Tonight, at least, I have my camera. My security blanket. I raise it and snap frames. Hands. Knees. Slim legs. When the girls angle their shoulders toward me, I lower my lens. Way too young for Rose.

Another cool breeze sends goose bumps down my neck, gradual darkness turning the concrete from gray to iron. People lurk in the growing shadows. The vibe on the street creeps into creepier. I’m about to hurry to a bus stop when a huge, hulking man comes into view.

My heart does its flipping thing.

Illuminated by a streetlight, Nico’s hands are planted on his knees as he leans forward to talk to a boy seated on the sidewalk. His face is intense, as though he’s in cop mode, but he’s not in his uniform blues. The kid looks to be in his twenties, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. I should look away, walk away. Instead I lift my camera.

Click. The head of the phoenix curling up Nico’s neck.

Click. The bulging bicep that stretches his short sleeve.

Click. The set of his square jaw.

Then I shoot an ass montage.

Every angle and viewpoint I can manage, wide shots and close-ups, details and panoramas, because God in heaven, that ass. Twenty shots later, his head whips around, and his sights lock on me. I freeze, sure he knows I was scoping his chiseled form, practically drooling. He says something to the boy then straightens. His long strides eat up the distance between us, and I enjoy every purposeful step. Dark jeans hug his hips, his white T-shirt tight enough to outline every edge and groove of his arms and pecs.

Forget the ass montage; the man needs a portfolio for each muscle.

When he reaches me, I realize my camera is still in front of my face. He puts a finger on the lens and presses it down, forcing me to acknowledge him. I’m not a short girl. I’ve dated guys taller than me and some shorter, but Nico’s massive frame towers. “You taking pictures?”

I rock on my feet, unsteady in his presence. The hair on his buzzed head is the same length as the scruff on his jaw, his lips slightly parted. If he didn’t ruin things after Aspen, I’d press to my tiptoes and rub my cheek against his five o’clock shadow.

Since he did ruin things, I say, “Can vegetarians eat animal crackers?”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

A bus screeches by, and I drop my camera around my neck, looking anywhere but at his eyes. “I have this thing where if someone asks me a stupid question, like something really obvious, I reply with the dumbest question I can think of.” Don’t look into his eyes. Don’t look into his eyes. I drag my gaze up, and my heart stutters. Those ocean eyes.

He rolls his tongue over his teeth. “Are you calling me stupid?”

So hypnotized, I almost fall into him. “No, I’m calling your question stupid. Yes, I was taking pictures.” I jiggle my camera. “That’s usually why people carry these contraptions.”

“I don’t remember you having such a smart mouth in Aspen.” He licks his lips.

I so want to lick those lips. “Selective amnesia. Sarcasm is my signature move.”

His gaze drifts down to my boots. “I remember other moves.”

Although not verbose, the Sexy Beast likes to banter. “Do you, now?”

He steps closer, his chest brushing my camera lens. I tense my abs, heat spreading south. “Some,” he says. “I remember you smiling.”