Page 30 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Straightening as I push off my door, an involuntary whimper slips past my lips. I can only hope that a good night’s rest eases this full-body soreness and tomorrow I’ll wake miraculously feeling normal again. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”
Ben’s hand lands on my forearm, stopping me before I can limp into my room. “Would you, uh, maybe want to join me for dinner?”
“But…” I blink up at him. “Oh. You mean in yourroom?”
“It would just be two physically exhausted people having dinner together.”
“Right.”Right, right, right.
“I mean, if you don’t want to that’s completely understandable,” he says. “No big deal. I just thought it might be better than both of us eating alone.”
Ben sounds casual. So I should be casual, too. Because yeah, it’stotallycasual. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Just let me shower and I’ll be over.”
Ben smiles and releases my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake.
Super casual.
* * *
An hour later, I feel like a new person. Well, a new person with an aching lower half, double shin splints, and a blister on my little toe the same size as the toe itself. But at least I’m scrubbed clean, and the hotel hairdryer did a halfway decent job of drying my hair. I pull on yoga pants—no hard pants for this beat-up body tonight—and a loose tee, then dab a bit of concealer under my eyes, add a touch of blush to my cheeks, and slide a shimmery gloss across my lips. (Absolutely unrelated to dinner with Ben of course.)
At least that’s a portion of the case I present to myself in the mirror, along with phrases like,Who cares if it’s his hotel room?andIt’s no different than having dinner withany other photographer. With a deep breath and a vow to myself that this meal will be purely professional, I pad into the hallway in a pair of flip-flops.
When the neighboring door eventually swings open after several knocks, Ben stands before me bare-chested with gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, golden brown hair still damp from the shower. Unable to keep my eyes contained to his face, my gaze sweeps over a body that is all lean muscles and deep ridges, like he’s an Olympic swimmer on the side or something. There’s a sparse patch of dark hair in the center of his chest, and on hisinner right biceps is a shaded black tattoo of a camera. Not just any camera, his camera.
This is definitely no dinner with any of my other photographers. All of whom wear shirts to most engagements.
“Sorry,” he says in a rushed voice as I force my eyes back to his face. “I got distracted transferring today’s photos to my laptop and lost track of time. Come on in.”
I follow Ben inside his room—definitelynotchecking out the muscular planes of his shoulder blades or the fantastic curve of his ass.
Ben pulls out a clean black T-shirt from a meticulously packed open suitcase on a small sofa in the corner of the room and tugs it overhead. Averting my eyes, I focus on the desk along the far wall where images from Gullfoss Falls light up his laptop screen. I make my way over and lean forward for closer inspection.
“Shit, Ben. At this point, I don’t know why I bother journaling about these sites. I could write an entire book based offoneof your photos.”
Over my shoulder, I see the self-deprecating shake of his head as he approaches. “You’re being too generous. Really. Those aren’t edited yet.”
“Still. They’re incredible.”
“And your article will be, too.”
Silence falls around us, but I break it before it gets too heavy by locating the room service menu and deciding what I want to eat. While Ben calls in our orders, I lean closer to the laptop screen and prop my chin in my palm, taking the liberty of clicking through a few more images, each one mesmerizing in its own unique way.
Finishing his call, Ben hangs up the phone on the bedside table and sidles up beside me. I glance up at him, wordlessly—and belatedly—asking permission to continue, and he nods. I take my time, studying each photo like I’ll be quizzed on it later. Then I reach the photos from Kerið Crater and pause on a black-and-white still that makes the air catch in my chest. Ben and I are seated on the bench in front of the rippling water, our backs to the camera as we stare out at the raw beauty surrounding us, our bodies tiny in comparison to the crater that engulfs us, but I suppose that’s the point.
“How’d you take this one?” I ask.
“Oh. My tripod was set up behind us. The camera works off a remote.”
I rise to my full height and turn to him. Ben scratches at his jaw, expression uncertain. For whatever reason, he seems embarrassed I’ve stumbled upon this image.
“I should’ve asked your permission before I took it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’sgorgeous.”
His uneasy expression relaxes into a smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
My pulse kicks up several notches as he looks down at me, his fresh, soapy scent swirling in the air around us. I fight the urge to reach for him, to grasp his soft T-shirt between my fingers and pull—
