Page 187 of Mangled Memory
“Ask me what.”
“Nothing. It’s no biggie.”
His eyes narrow, but I watch him calculate the situation before giving in.
I go with it. “Where are my camera bodies and lenses?”
“Several are at the shop. A few are here in the cabinet on the left when you enter the dark room. A couple are upstairs in your studio. And your TLR is right there.” He points to the glass-doored cabinets beside the fireplace.
I start for it, only to spin back around, struck by something he said. “I have a studio upstairs?”
“Did you not explore last night with Halley?”
“Just into the reading room, but we never left. Do I want to know how much suede curtains cost?”
He circles the island and falls into step beside me leading me with a warm hand at my back. The heat sears there. It takes all the discipline I have not to push back into it. At the top of the stairs, instead of going left to the reading room, we turn right. Ahead of me there are double doors, and when we arrive at them, Christian stands aside, allowing me to pull them open.
I can only liken the experience to light bursting forward into me so much that it cannot be contained. A solid wall of windows is visible opposite me. They overlook the terrace, the back lawn, and out onto the Rockies. I walk into the room. Behind me is a matte black wall with a lone image—the one from the gallery. The one that I’ve spent all day wondering how I could bring home.
And I don’t mean the house. There’s something in that shot that’shometo me.
In my bones, it’s melody.
In my soul, it’s harmony.
It’s peace.
And it’s here.
“Does the light fade it?”
I watch Christian who stands just outside the door taking in my reaction.
“You own it, baby. You created it. You can print it everysingle day if you thought the contrast of the shadows didn’t do it justice. But it does. It’s…”
He never finishes and something about that is the loudest compliment he could’ve offered.
“Yeah. It is. I saw it today.”
“You did?”
I nod, never taking my gaze from the image.
I feel Christian at my back and ever-so-slowly, he pulls me into him. His arms wrap around me, low on my belly, as I get lost in that lone moose’s eyes… engaged in a stare-down that never ends.
“Yeah. I went for a drive before I met Mom. The shop is… I have no words. No, I do. It’s a dream come true. It’s more than I ever could’ve wished for. My work. That kind of location. Renovations that kept the character and history and allowed the space to be warm and inviting, but feel exactly like what I’d want in a gallery of mine. I could swear that’s where the old hatmaker was. Is that right?”
The vibration moving through me from his voice and the warmth at my back are lulling me. “It was. Somehow the leather scent that still hangs in the air there and the tanning chemicals work for the space. It’s like old Denver colliding with the fresh air off the mountains.”
“I wasn’t alive for old Denver, but yeah. It’s warm and comforting. Very inviting.”
“I wasn’t alive for it either.” He squeezes his arms around me in what I assume is a playful gesture.
“Yeah, but, thirty-five. You might as well have been.”
The squeeze becomes tickling, and he folds over me as I strain to get away. Then wrestling becomes… something else. Kissing and groping. Pulling and feeling.
My back hits the wall, and my hands are pinned above my head. The assault of his tongue and lips at my neck, under my ear, and down to my collar bone drive me mad. I squirm until he places a knee between my thighs. I spread for him, using his leg to rub against like some teenager.
