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He smirks. “Are you psychoanalyzing me, Bradford?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, mock-solemnly. “I don’t want to know what goes on inside that head of yours.”
“It’s pretty simple, really,” he shrugs. “Or it has been, at least. Make a lot of money and make my company – and my own reputation – as formidable as possible.”
“But don’t mince words,” I joke.
“Hey, I just thought you should know who you’re dealing with,” he says.
“I’ve known that for a long time,” I say softly. And even though it’s hard to tell, I’m pretty sure that I see his rich emerald skin darken just slightly. In embarrassment or pleasure? I don’t know.
Ragnar clears his throat. “I think we’re closing the place down.”
I glance around, and notice that ours is the only table that’s still occupied. “You ready to leave?”
“Sure,” Ragnar says and we both thank that staff and make our way outside. But when we get outside, he hesitates. “Bradford?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not ready for the night to end,” he confesses.
“Me, neither,” I say, standing close to him. I look at him, wondering what he would do if I kissed him right now.
Would that be too forward? Would he react with passion and desire? Or would I be coming on too strongly, doing something he’s not ready for?
Sure, we flirted over dinner. But banter is one thing. Action is something else altogether.
Ragnar clears his throat and looks away. “So, um, what should we do?”
And then inspiration strikes. “I’d like to photograph you.”
“What?” Ragnar splutters. “Me? Where? Why?”
“Calm down,” I laugh. “I photograph all of my friends. And we could go over there,” I say, gesturing to the town square. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to do any outrageous poses.”
“I don’t know about this,” he grumbles, but follows me into the green space. We sit down on a bench and I pull out the simple digital camera I always have on me.
“Stay there,” I tell him, standing up and walking away.
“I feel ridiculous,” Ragnar calls to me. “What am I supposed to be doing?”
“Tell me a story,” I suggest, snapping a few quick pictures.
“My mind is blank,” he protests.
“Come on, it’s not that difficult! Tell me about Gorlag and Emily’s wedding.”
And he does, gradually relaxing the longer he talks. His eyes light up with happiness as he describes the ceremony and the reception. He laughs telling me about the traditional orc games that Gorlag insisted be a part of the wedding, and how into them some of Emily’s human friends got.
All the while, I move around him, constantly taking pictures. Some are close-ups and some are longer shots. I know that not all of them will turn out like I want them to. But I get that little frisson of excitement shooting through me whenever I’ve managed to capture an image that I know is going to be excellent.
Finally, Ragnar’s voice trails off. “Hey, Bradford?”
“Yeah?”
“I hate to say this, man, but I’m getting kind of bored. It’s not you,” he adds hastily. “I can tell you’re really into this and it’s cool to watch you work. Even though I still feel weird being the subject.”
“No, it’s fine,” I grin. “I think if I had to sit in an office and listen to you, I don’t know, do whatever Masters of the Universe shit CEOs do, I’d fall asleep.”
