Page 5 of Mr. Picture Perfect
From Tamika’s mouth:Take! The! Shot!
And what about my stance at the newspaper? Am I going to have to find a new job soon? Selling my photography alone isn’t enough to support myself or contribute to my family. I can’t keep relying on my parents, either. I want to own a house someday. I want to have a sense of autonomy. Security. Safety. But nothing is safe or secure. Not even a box of wiggly jello or a stack of folders.
Noah!
Then, like clouds parting to reveal the sky, through the lens of my camera a guy’s face leaps out from the crowd.
A face like no other.
Expressive. Dazzling. Amazed. Eyes shimmering like jewels in the sunlight.
Then I realize that face is looking right at me. Bursting with emotion, with staggering might, like solar flares around the bright and brilliant sun, his breathtaking face.
He’s charging straight at me, shouting something.
I lower my camera, stunned.
Wait a sec.Is that Cole Harding …?
That’s my last thought as Cole rams into me, knocking every ounce of air from my lungs and tackling me to the pavement—just as an enormous stack of something far heavier than folders comes tumbling down right where I stood. My world becomes chaos and shattering glass—and Cole Harding’s face hovering over mine.
Chapter 2
Cole
The Annual Spruce Spring Crafts Festival is my favorite event of the year—just don’t try saying it five times fast. I love it more than the Halloween Pumpkin Hunt or Christmas at the Strongs’.
And the reason I love this festival more than Nadine Strong’s pecan pie is the beaming smile on my sweet grandma’s face right now as I walk her down the bustling, colorful streets of downtown Spruce, arm-in-arm.
South Texas this time of year is an up-and-down rollercoaster of short-lived cold fronts and warm sunlight—often at the same time. So the air is justperfectas my grandma and I peruse all the kiosks and see what’s in store for us this year. Quincy and his wife are showing off a collection of woven hats festooned with bright ribbons. I chat with them for a bit, asking how their son and his girlfriend are doing. Then there’s pink-sweater-wearing Penelope, selling her usual (and colorful) homemade candles. I chat with her for a bit, too, of course. It looks like Lena and Tiff are proudly showing off their handcrafted dolls made totally from recycled materials, including the cute little outfits—an endeavor they used to do with their gal-pal moms, but now have taken over to do on their own. I pick one of the dolls up and make her perform a silly little dance on the table, which causes a shy girl nearby to giggle, come out of her shell, and beg her mom to get her one. Tiff gives me a wink of appreciation, and I wink playfully back.
I can’t help it. I just love people.
Though my sweet Nan’s face radiates glee the whole time, she is exceptionally choosy about whom to purchase from. “Lovely!” she says to a young woman who sits at a table full of colorful soaps in a variety of eye-catching shapes. “But did you use a cold process or hot process method to make these? Can I trouble you to know what essential oil is used in these ones? Smells like cedarwood …”
Also, my grandma is crazy smart.
“Iadoreyour tiny metal sculptures,” she says at another table. “This is polished nickel, right? Not silver? Did you solder all these yourself, young man? Using lead-free solder wire or a lead alloy?”
“I love your work,” she exclaims later as she searches through a rack of handmade skirts and dresses. “You’ve sure got an eye for color, Georgina, but of course you do, dancin’ on those ballerina toes of yours in your sparkly outfits, as light on your feet as a feather. Speaking of, are these real feathers? I admire your double herringbone stitch, great technique. Do you ever collaborate with Lance at Goodwin Designs? Who supplies your textiles? Or do you print them yourself? I’ve got my eye on this chartreuse halter dress over here but can’t tell if the cotton’s blended with acrylic or rayon. Do you know, honeybun?”
Her questions and knowhow are always peppered with smiles, sweetness, and compliments. No one ever feels interrogated, even if they’re left standing with wide eyes and jaw slackened. I learned everything I know from this woman—far more than I learned from my own parents.
“But enough about me! How’s your grandson here?” asks Ms. Ducasse. She passed my Nan on the street and stopped for a chat. They go way back. “Look at him! He’s so stunningly handsome!Toohandsome. Even when he was a student in my class just a few years ago … my, how he’s grown, still the lady killer! Have you caught yourself a special gal yet?” she then asks me directly.
I smile politely. “You’re so sweet, Ms. Ducasse, but I’ve just been keeping busy and—”
“He’s gayer than a sack of Blow Pops, Irma, have you been livin’ under a rock?” cuts in my grandma.
Ms. Ducasse swallows her mouth. “I—I suppose I must’ve—”
“And sadly, no,” Nan goes on, her voice turning into molasses the next breath. “I doubt there’s a manorwoman fitting enough to date my little prince.” She pats me on the cheek like I’m still six-and-a-half, tugging on her dress and begging to taste-test her cookies before dinner. “Do you know that Nadine tried settin’ him up with a boy from Fairview? Didn’t work out, no it didn’t, but my grandson is so noble, he didn’t let it break his spirit one bit. Look at those eyes. They call him Mr. Perfection, and I can’t think of an eligible bachelor more deserving of such a title in all Texas.”
I give an apologetic grimace to my paralyzed former math teacher before nudging my grandma. “I’m sure there’s one or two flaws somewhere in me if you look close enough.”
“Not a chance,” states my grandma proudly.
Ms. Ducasse leans forward and lowers her voice. “Come to think of it, Idoknow a single young man in town. I don’t know if he’sgay, but goodness, he sure could use a nice friend. Are you close with the Myers? They just had to put down their family dog last fall, and—”
