Page 21 of Tempt Her

His eyes spark, then glance down, and it flutters my heart. “Nothing,” he mutters, and I see his hesitation, fighting his gaze that lingers back up my powder blue yoga pants, over my sports bra, landing on my eyes and tripling my pulse.

After my mornings with my dad and yoga class, I glow. I’m happy. No husband. No makeup. No groomed hair or high heels or approved dress I have to wear.

I’m natural and free for a stolen hour.

And Luke makes my joy last longer this morning, asking, “So what do you do when you’re not taking care of your dad?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Oh,” he winces, “that’s a bad habit.” He softly grins at my self-loathing, and he’s right. I never used to be this way. That’s Gentry’s word for me. Like cancer, it tries to grow in my psyche too. “Try again,” he says.

“I like doing photography. Graduations. Retirements. Headshots for résumés and social media, that kinda stuff. My schedule is too crazy to do it as a business, but I do it when I can.”

“No weddings?”

“No. I like the joy in someone’s eyes when they accomplish something on their own. When they’re truly proud. There’s nothing like it.”

“How’d you get into it?”

“I wanted to use my marketing major somehow. Someone should benefit from all my experience on stage and in front of cameras. I don’t even charge people. I just like helping them.”

The nod of his head is slow, and nowhe’sthe mature one, and I’m the fool to think years lived always equates to wisdom. Grief provides it too.

I admire that about Luke. Like Gentry, he lost his dad, but Luke hasn’t let it turn him into an angry, bitter man. He’s using his loss as inspiration.

I guess I did the same thing. I never wanted to win a pageant. I just wanted to make my mom proud, to graduate from college.

It’s weird. Like she’s suddenly here with me in this stolen moment, so I confess, “Not many people ask about me.”

He nods again, bit by bit, wedging his big green eyes into my heart that wants to trust him. “You ever heard of the flower, the ‘Queen of the Night?’” he asks.

“No.”

“It’s big and bright white. It rarely blooms, but when it does, it’s only in the dark.” Confused, I shake my head, so he explains, “It’s special because only a few people get to see it.”

Suddenly…

I feeltooseen,toovulnerable, andtooreal. Even my ponytail feels more like me, more exposed. I don’t know this feeling of praise, tossing me into the middle of a sparkling ocean and letting me float in it.

“I, uh...”

Reaching to take his empty coffee cup to the trash, I mutter, “Excuse me. I need to take a shower. I’m all sweaty and gross.”

Pulling a new paintbrush from his back pocket, he glances down. “You look beautiful like that.”

It punches my ego, and it doesn’t hurt. It heals. I’ve never been compared to a flower or admired with such gentle sincerity. It rushes my veins, finding that one spot I protect, the bruise on my heart begging me to hear him, to let his words touch me there.

“Thank you,” is all I can murmur.

He won’t look at me as he turns away from the exposure, too, and goes to work while I turn for the stairs, coffee cups in hand, not sure what I’m feeling.

In the bathroom upstairs, I toss the cups in the trash while I start my shower. Stripping bare, I’m lost in the gift Luke gave me with one simple word—beautiful.

He wasn’t saying it about my appearance. I know my assets and flaws because I’ve been judged my whole life.

It’s what underneath that matters to me, that never gets seen. Only my parents, then my dad, then a rare, random person like Ms. Carver, the nurse, or Cade, who just befriended me. Out of nowhere, someone appears in my life with genuine kindness and sees past this Barbie doll facade I maintain like a hard plastic shell to protect me.

But it’s like Luke sees through it, and he said I was beautiful—me, taking care of my dad; me, liking to take pictures of proud people; me, sweaty from the yoga that gives me rare peace.

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