Page 16 of Camera Chemistry
A flip switches and Aiden lights up, brighter than the North Star. “Her name is Maven. Or, Mae, as I call her. She’s sixteen, a junior in high school, and loves to swim and read. Her favorite subject is English, and she wants to be an editor for a major publishing house when she graduates college.”
“Wow, she sounds incredible.” I smile at the thought of Aiden corralling a horde of teenage girls on the Metro from one place to another. “I love a girl who dreams big. Who does she look like?”
“If you’re going off physical features, she could be my twin.”
“You’re proud of her.”
“Unbelievably so,” Aiden says. “She makes me want to be a better person. What about you? Any kids? Married?”
“No. Neither. I was married, once upon a time. I’m single, too.”
“I think you’re copying me. Doctor. Divorced. Single.”
“Are you also not looking for a relationship? Because I’ve shunned dating for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship either. You know how our profession is. Long hours, emotionally draining, and physically demanding. It doesn’t award me—us—a lot of time to date.”
I hum and decide to walk on a tightrope, a daredevil act with no safety net below. “Interesting. Two single people who don’t want a relationship. A world of possibilities.”
Oh, god.
I don’t know what I’m saying orwhyI’m saying it, but I want to. A pressure in my chest swells at the idea of more time with Aiden, whatever that time might be.
Aiden’s eyes darken, kerosene and flames emerging from behind the hazel. “My daughter told me I’m required to grab a coffee with the woman from the photo shoot after we finish. Is that something you’d be interested in, Maggie?”
My name has never sounded so sinister, so wicked, so right before. Is coffee a metaphor for something else? Some term I’m unfamiliar with because the only thing that’s gotten me off lately is a rechargeable toy and my own two fingers? I swallow, not caringwhatit might be defined as, just that I want it.
“Coffee sounds great,” I say. I can hardly recognize my voice. It’s deep, full of need and desire andno, I shouldn't.
But,fuck, I really want to.
Aiden steps toward me and grins, another smile lobbed my way. I’m collecting them like little treasures and seashells found on a beach. His fingers reach out and tuck a rogue piece of hair behind my ear. His touch caresses down my cheek and he leans in, close to my ear, and whispers, “I was hoping you’d say that. I think we’ll be great friends.”
Breathing is impossible. A feat I’m unable to accomplish, too busy memorizing the wrinkles around his eyes. The shape of his lips, the drag of his hand down the curve of my face, the warmth of his body so near mine. I hear the sigh he emits, content and pleased, a ghost of a kiss against my skin.
“Mags, Aiden, we’re all set up. Ready to start?” Jeremiah’s voice is shrapnel cutting through the moment, slicing it in two.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Be right there.”
Distracting, distracting, distracting.
Aiden rests his palm on my lower back as we walk to the group. It’s a solid weight, an anchor to keep me stable on shaky legs. We step around ring lights and backdrops, taking our time. His touch is unwavering, justthere, a constant support.
He offers his hand to help lower me to the ground and waits until I’m fully seated to join me on the blanket. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get up,” he says gruffly as he folds his legs. He winces and twists his back, the muscles under his sweater stretching. “There better be some damn good snacks in there.”
I open the wicker basket and inspect the contents. “Sorry, no pickles. Just crackers and cheese.”
“Unbelievable. Next time I do a fake picnic in an industrial building, I’m demanding some pickles. No one will ever want to work with me.”
We distribute the food and make small talk, sharing our favorite ice cream flavors—mint chocolate chip for me, plain chocolate for him. How we feel about cold weather—Aiden is more of a summer guy. A discussion about movies arises;Sweet Home Alabamais, ironically, his favorite, andTitanicis mine. We have a ten-minute conversation dissecting the physics behind Rose not pulling Jack on the door.
The faces on set become blurred, movement shifting from in front of us to behind, adjusting lights and camera angles as they go. In between bites, a makeup artist bursts into our bubble, touching up a spot on my cheek with a fresh coat of blush. I know people are there, I’m aware of their presence, but in the moment, it’s just me and Aiden, the rest of the world dissolving away.
He listens intently to my words, eyes never straying from my face. When a drop of strawberry jam lands on his finger, he licks it off. His tongue glides up the digit while never breaking my gaze, and I almost let out a strangled moan.
What else could he do with that tongue?
What else could he do tomewith that tongue?
