Page 11 of Entangled

“True,” I agree softly, his words striking deep at the core of me.

I tense at the feel of his questioning eyes on me, not wanting to go anywhere near questions that could lead down the rabbit hole of my past. Time to change the subject.

“So if you’re always on the go for work, what brought you here?”

I feel his probing eyes linger on me for a beat before he passes the tequila back and answers. “I have some business to wrap up here in Jaco and then I’m headed to a little shack I have on the beach in Cahuita for some downtime before my next project.”

“You know…” I take a sip and tilt my head at him. “I think that might be the most words you’ve said since the bar.”

He scoffs. “Brat.”

“And don’t you forget it.” I smirk at him unapologetically.

We walk in silence for another moment before I look back and deem we’re far enough away from the bars that we can’t be seen, the faint lights barely twinkling at me from a few miles away. I tap his arm to grab his attention and sit, wedging the bottle in the sand as he joins me.

His brows dip slightly as he looks out at the crashing of the waves. “I guess I have more to say when it’s about something that matters to me.”

“And I’m guessing this little shack in Cahuita matters?” I take advantage of my view to admire the strength of his profile. The dark lashes sweeping out from his eyelids are long and striking at this angle. He really is an Adonis come to life.

“It’s probably the only place I feel at peace.” The words are said quietly, almost guiltily, as if my presence was momentarily forgotten in the depths of his mind.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Sounds like a hell of a place.”

His eyes meet mine and clear, lips ghosting up as he leans back and eyes me speculatively. “Why a photographer?”

“Because sometimes life makes more sense from behind the lens of a camera.”

“Explain.”

I sigh at the demand in his voice, resisting the temptation to throw out some witty remark or grab for the tequila and try to find the right words.

“When you’re taking a picture, you’re choosing what to capture… pain, love, death, life. The decision and degree of which is entirely up to you. You choose what message you want to relate without having to explain anything more than that. Life, people, are layered with stories… but in a photograph the only thing that matters is that moment. There doesn’t need to be anything more than that. There’s a simplicity, a purity to the one moment over the many.”

“You’re in control.” His eyes narrow in thought. “Of all the variables in the story, at least for a moment.”

I give him a short shrug in response. “I suppose.”

“Interesting.”

The quiet way he says it leaves me feeling entirely too exposed for my liking, as if that one answer gives him entry into the inner workings of me. Time to shift the focus.

“What else do you love?” I tease, purposefully brushing my body against his as I lean back beside him.

His eyes drop to my lips and linger, darkening with desire before coming back up to rest on mine.

“That moment somewhere between midnight and morning when the whole world falls away and you’re left with this vivid clarity.”

I stare into his eyes silently in response, feeling that pull wind through the air between us again. That was not what I had been expecting him to say… and yet now I couldn’t imagine any other answer leaving his lips. He leans into me, bringing our faces a hairbreadth apart and causing my lips to part as desire spreads through my veins.

“One last question.” His voice is low, eyes intense. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“My mother,” I answer automatically, so lost in the haze of lust that the words leave me before I think to censor, like I normally would.

“Your mother?” Harsh brows draw tight over his hooded eyes.

I clear my throat and lean back. Answering him honestly but diverting from the truth all the same. “Becoming my mother. Isn’t that a fate a lot of girls fear?” I throw him another bratty wink, hiding my damage behind a wall made of shine and snark.

His eyes narrow on me as if he’s trying to fit the pieces of a puzzle together without having ever seen what it was supposed to be. “Is that the truth?”

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