Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Still … I melted. Physically. Emotionally, spiritually.
He stepped behind me, tall and warm. Because of the short length of my wavy hair, his breath brushed my neck the way I loved. Tingles danced down my spine.
“You said you’d trust me, Cutie Pie.”
That’s not my name. It reminded me of a pudgy baby doll, and I already had the high, full cheeks and skin tone of Jurnee Smollett.
“I trust you,” I murmured. He pulled the camera bag off my shoulder, placing it on an entry table, and slipped his calloused hands—rough from batting practice and warm from the man he was—over my eyes. “No peeking.”
“Oh, no. I’m wearing heels.”
“I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Swoon. I did my best to sashay my other cheeks, while he guided me forward a few steps.
When his hands dropped away, I blinked. And forgot how to breathe.
Instead of a forty-thousand-dollar-a-night hookup spot, someone transformed the suite’s living room into a gallery. My gallery.
Large-scale photos on easels. Mounted prints on walls. Familiar, candid shots—the kind I thought I’d taken just for myself. My favorite image of him. One of us wrapped in shadows and laughter. Fewer images from the start, when I avoided his busy life, right after his brother and my friend married around Christmas two years ago.
“What do you think?”
My eyes rested on a photo pulled straight from Instagram. I gasped. “This, paired with the text messages? Simple. You’re a stalker.”
“Maybe a little.”
The chuckle on my lips slowed when I glimpsed an image of me from nearly two summers ago. The night of …
“Social media enthusiast,” he corrected, pulling me out of that nightmare.
No one ever knew.
“I wanted you to see what I see.” His voice wrapped around me. “I craved the sight of you. Framed. Lit. Unforgettable.”
My throat tightened. My vision blurred. Not because of what transpired eighteen months ago. Because of Lachlan. He always turned my mood around.
There was just one photo I wanted to rip out of this beautiful place—my gallery. Instead of giving the image any more headspace, I turned toward Lachlan.
“Stunning,” I began, voice breathless, “I must thank … your assistant and anyone in hotel management that made this possible.”
Lachlan’s eyes lingered on me. “Just them?”
“Yep.”
The laugh he offered rumbled from him and turned my heartbeat into a frenzy. “Natasha, every part of you wants to thank me.”
My cheeks flushed. After a couple of beats, Lachlan stopped pinning me beneath his intense gaze.
“I wanted to show you,” he said, voice low, “that I see you, Tasha. I don’t always say it. But I pay attention.”
“I know …”
“It won’t always be like this,” Lachlan said. “The distance. The craziness.”
“I know …” I murmured, but he didn’t know the half of my reluctance to fall into that hollow my heart created when we met.
“Just renewed my contract with Nike.”
Although I nodded, part of me anticipated the next excuse. Because he could give them, and I would take them.
Only—it didn’t come.
He stood beside me. I returned my attention to the images, keeping clear of the one from the night of my leukemia nonprofit fundraising event two summers ago.
I had started Whispers of Hope after high school and worked closely with my doctor and a research team to help other kids with cancer. Kids like me. I’d turned my twenty-first birthday celebration into a fundraiser. Should’ve been an amazing night. And honestly? That was how it started. There were generous quantities of king crab legs and celebrity shoutouts. Even more generous donors, helping a cause that touched hearts. Then it wasn’t.
I glanced at another photo of me and smiled. I had never seen myself as beautiful. Not that I had bad self-esteem or anything. When raised on death’s bed, other things became more important. Books. Too many cheesy rom-coms, some adventure. I valued what other youths neglected, like not ditching classes, though Momma homeschooled me from freshman through junior year. Plus, I already had an AA degree before senior year, so there was that.
There was also the lens of my camera to hide behind. Stalkerish photos to take. Not to toot my own horn, but my stalkerish photos were amazing—courtesy of the fine instructors at UCLA.
However, Lachlan had found every single photo of me and placed it in this room. He was the curator. And me? I now experienced the opposite side of the lens. Became art. Seen. Celebrated. Loved. Even if he hadn’t spoken it yet.
Lachlan’s arm slipped around my waist, his hand resting on my opposite hip. The tension in the muscular wall of his chest pressed against my shoulder. His breath brushed the shell of my ear.
“I’d build galleries in every city if it made you feel this seen.”
“I don’t want that,” I whispered. “I just want one man who sees me. Every version.” Maybe the broken version from that summer night. “And still wants to stay.”