“Judy’s?” he asks, giving a nod to the bubble-gum pink lettering spelling out the name.
“Are you judging the establishment based on the sign?”
“No. I’m judging it off the pink door.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll have you know that this is the best-kept secret in the whole city.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
Wade looks down the street toward the hotels and more popular restaurants like Paddy’s. The juxtaposition of the polished, dapper man who looks like he should be having a fancy brunch somewhere standing in front of a window with pink-and-white checkered curtains is fun.
I run back to my car and snag my camera from the back seat. Luckily, Wade isn’t concerned with my doings. His attention is still pegged elsewhere.
Then as if the heavens open and shine down, he slips one hand into his pocket.
My inner photographer springs into action. I lift the camera and shoot.
Close-up. Farther away.
He takes his hand out and lifts his chin.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Wade gives me a solid minute of unbridled action. But then that action halts.
He looks at me, his brows raising, and holds out a hand. “What the hell are you doing?”
“This is a camera,” I say, holding it out to him. “It takes things called photographs.”
“Don’t be dense, Dara.”
My shoulders slump. “Come on. Let’s at least look at them.”
“I have no interest.”
“Wade.”
He stares at me as if the intensity will make me relent. I hold his gaze just as sharply. Our standoff lasts until a man on a scooter barrels down the sidewalk and forces Wade to move.
I try another angle.
“Why did you want to be an architect?” I ask.
He glances at the camera and then to me with a curious, if not suspicious, expression.
“I designed a log cabin in the fourth grade for a history project,” he says. “Holt helped me build it out of sticks and hot glue.”
“Your mother let you use hot glue in the fourth grade?”
“Well, there are five of us boys. Holt was a little older, and I think we did it when she wasn’t home.” His suspicion melts into amusement. “Coy ended up gluing his finger to Boone’s, so your concern is well placed.”
I laugh. “I can’t imagine living in a house with that many brothers.”
“It will make you or break you in many ways.”
I step onto the sidewalk but keep a few paces away from him, lest he decide to grab my camera and delete the photos I just took.
“What did it do to you? Make you or break you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer for a long second. “Probably both. Now, about those pictures …”
“Okay, but let’s circle back to the architect thing. I was going somewhere.”
He shakes his head.
“Architecture is your art, right?”
“I suppose.”
“How do you feel when you design something?” I grin. “I mean, if your cold heart feels anything.”
He makes a face.
“I’m serious. How do you feel when you show someone a design you’ve created?”
“We’re here to eat donuts, not to discuss feelings.”
I hold up two fingers. “This will take two minutes.”
He squares his body to mine. “Two minutes we don’t have.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Well, I say this—I have the keys to the car, and I’m not taking you back to the office until you answer me.”
He almost grins. “I’ll call an Uber.”
I sigh dramatically. “Just answer the question, Wade.”
He rolls his neck, his eyes glued to mine. I’m not sure what his reaction is going to be but, dammit, I think I might win this round.
We step to the side to let a woman out of Judy’s. She’s carrying a box. She nods politely at me but stutter steps when she sees Wade.
“Oh!” she says, her face breaking out into a full smile. “Excuse me.”
I roll my eyes at Wade’s total obliviousness to her attempted come-on.
When the woman is down the sidewalk, Wade turns to me.
I have to catch my breath.
His face is lit up. The lines around his mouth are invisible. His brow isn’t furrowed in agitation. He almost looks like a different man—still gorgeous and striking. Just … different.
“When I show someone a design I’ve created for them, I’m energized,” he says, his voice low. “It’s a hit of dopamine. I … I feel a connection to them.” He shifts his weight. “I’ve hopefully transferred their dreams and wishes into a tangible item, and that’s … there’s nothing better than that.”
A softness settles in his words. It washes over my heart. I don’t move, don’t speak as he nibbles on his bottom lip.
I’m not sure that he’s ever verbalized this to someone. I’m not positive that he’s ever thought it through to himself. But as the realization hits him that he’s just said this out loud, to me, he clears his throat, and—poof!—the vulnerability is gone.
I spring into action before the moment is lost.
“That is how I feel when I look at someone through my camera,” I say. “I crave that hit of dopamine. To think that someone trusts me enough to capture their emotions—to see them without any distractions …” I suck in a breath. “I get to peek into someone’s soul and that’s such a beautiful thing.”
I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t even dare to blink while Wade contemplates what I said.
His body stills and then, ever-so-slowly, his shoulders relax.
“Will you at least look at them?” I ask, extending my camera toward him. “Just see you like I just saw you?”
He starts to speak but stops.
“Fine,” I say, resolved. “If you really want me to delete them—”
“I’ll make a deal with you.”
Really? “Okay.”
He shifts his weight again. “I’ll let you keep the pictures if you let me take a photograph of you.”
What?
He reaches for the camera. I’m not certain what’s going on, but I hand it to him.
“Do you want me to pose?” I joke, trying to lighten him up. “Like this?” I lay my palm up on my forehead like a dramatic pin-up girl.
He tries so hard not to be entertained.
“Stand in the middle of the sidewalk,” he says. “With your back to Paddy’s.”
I walk around him in order to stand where indicated. As I do, his hand brushes my side.
My body registers the contact before my brain has time to prepare. I exhale an inaudible moan at the circus that takes up shop in my stomach.
I ignore the chaos rippling along my skin and get into position.
One foot slightly in front of the other. Stand tall. Create distance between my body and my arm.
I lean slightly forward and look toward the street.
“Look at me,” Wade says.
“Oh, you’re going for a portrait?”
His face stays blank.
“Fine, fine.” I adjust my position and look into the camera.
A car blasts its horn on the street. The scents of food from Paddy’s grows, swirling through the air like a kite. A group of people laughs as they walk down the other side of the street, but all of that fades away.
I haven’t been on this side of the camera much. Being the subject when Wade Mason is the photographer is different than the handful of times I’ve allowed someone this much access to me.