Page 63 of Merry Little Midlife Matchmaker

“Sure.”

“Will you show me some of your photos?”

I pulled back, frowning. “My photos?”

He nodded to the image on the wall—the one I’d taken years ago of a bluff overlooking the ocean. “Laurel told me you took that. She said you used to be into photography, before life got in the way. The snaps you took of me and Mikey putting up the Christmas tree were amazing, and you just took those with your phone.”

“And that makes you want to see what else I’ve done?” I stared at him like he was crazy, which made him laugh.

“Yes, Lizzie.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Yes.”

He laughed again. “Fine. Because I find you interesting, and I want to get to know you better. All the parts that you’ve kept hidden.”

“I think Iamin a coma. There’s no way you’re real.”

His grin was a little wry. “If you’re in a coma, then there’s no reason not to show me your photos.”

My heart thumped and I knew by the heat burning in my face that my cheeks were red. But I shrugged and led him to the office just off the living room where I kept my laptop. I grabbed the device and headed back to the couch, waiting until the cushions dipped as he took a seat beside me. Glancing at him, knowing I’d show him the product of a hobby I’d abandoned years ago, I felt exposed.

But I also felt seen, and heard, and appreciated in a way that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

So I opened the laptop and found my old photographs, then settled into the crook of his arm to show them to him. When he asked me to send him a few of his favorites, the flush of pride that went through me washed away all the vulnerability and left me feeling clean and cherished.

TWENTY-EIGHT

SEAN

We stayedup late looking at her photography work, and I enjoyed the spark that entered her eyes when she told me about trips she’d taken before the kids, anecdotes about certain shots, the soft smile that tugged at her lips when she lingered on a favorite photo. She was proud of her work, and she had good reason to be.

We ate again after that, then cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs. I made love to her in her bed, intoxicated by the smell and feel and taste of her.

Afterward, when we were lying in a tangle, I stroked her skin and let out a long breath.

“Finally worn out, huh?”

I huffed. “I was just thinking about how different this year’s holidays were from every other year.”

“Because of the move?”

I glanced down at her. “Because of you, Lizzie.”

She swallowed, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember my dad?”

Her eyes flicked between mine, and she tilted her head back and forth. “Vaguely. He wasn’t around much, was he?”

“He left when I was fourteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We were better off. He drank a lot. And it always got bad at Christmas.”

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