Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(38)

We’d worked tirelessly all afternoon, and made a substantial dent in what was previously complete chaos. The studio was actually beginning to look like a studio, like a business, like what I’d always dreamed it could be. I could finally see the little sections I’d imagined, the division of the wide space, the different themes of each that helped them stand out while still bringing a cohesive feel to the shop.

My chest was light, wings fluttering against my rib cage.

It’s happening. It’s really happening.

The 1975 played on Logan’s speaker — which he’d brought with him at my insistence. I’d offered a suggestion from time to time, but for the most part, it’d been his music, his favorite bands and artists, and I loved getting a sneak peek inside his soul. He listened to everything from yacht rock and country to folk and classical — and he knew the words to every single song that came on. My favorite songs were the ones he couldn’t help but belt out rather than just quietly singing along.

Right now, he was bobbing his head along to “Sincerity is Scary,” one hand holding a slice of the pizza I ordered us for dinner and the other making more notes as he looked around the room at what we’d done and what was still left to do. I sipped on the sweet tea I’d made, watching him.

I’d told him to wear something he could get dirty in, so I guess I had myself to blame for the traveler sweat pants hanging off his hips, leaving practically nothing to the imagination when it came to how round and firm his ass was — as well as what he was packing in the front. And if those pants weren’t already a distraction, the old, ripped, slightly stained Stratford High t-shirt he wore with the sleeves ripped off in such a haphazard way that the muscles that lined his ribs were visible, would have done the trick. When he’d first taken his jacket off, I’d had to turn away, clearing my throat and commenting on something about the mess of boxes to keep from staring.

Now, after a long day of working, his hair was disheveled, curling out from under the edge of his ball cap.

And that little wrinkle was present, his brows furrowed in concentration.

I bit my lip, watching him balance that slice of pizza in one hand as he made notes with the other. I swear, I tried talking myself out of what my fingers ached to do most, but instinct won out.

I slipped off the little bar stool I was on — one that would be used in the painting corner of the studio — and crept to the back office. My camera was on the desk there, and I strapped it around my neck, fussing with the lens and settings before I made my way back into the shop.

I stood off to his left, the setting sun casting his strong profile in an orange glow through the large shop windows. Shadows stretched out behind him, and I lifted the camera, looking through the viewfinder at my subject just as he furrowed his brows even more, jotting something down on the notepad.

Click.

The sound was soft and quiet, but still audible over the music, and Logan’s head popped up, searching for the source. When he saw me still looking at him through the camera lens, he grinned.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

I shrugged, lowering the camera. “Just testing some of the settings,” I lied. “It’s the golden hour, great time for shooting. I wanted to see how the light came through the windows.”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth still quirked as he watched me from across the studio. “You’re really into photography, huh?”

“It’s one of my favorite mediums,” I said, making my way back to the bar stool across from him. I pressed the button on the back of the camera that would show me the images I’d taken, and when I saw the one I’d just snapped of Logan, my heart squeezed. “Although, I still haven’t managed how to capture the beauty of something you see with your eyes through the lens. Seems like, for some things, it’s impossible to accomplish.”

Logan was completely oblivious to the compliment, and he started in on his notes again. “I bet you do better than you think. Why don’t you have any of your art down here yet? Your paintings, photographs…” He glanced at me before pulling his attention back to the pad. “I’m sure you have thousands.”

“Most of them are upstairs,” I said. “And I do have thousands, but probably only a dozen that are good enough to display.”

Logan stopped writing, meeting my gaze. “I doubt that. I’d love to see what you’ve created.”

His eyes were intense where they watched me, the air thick and heavy in the shop. He swallowed, taking to his notes again as I fiddled with the settings on the camera to keep myself busy.

“You’ll have to show me some of your shots sometime,” he said after a moment.

I nodded, watching his face level out as he got back to work, wondering why my lungs were being so weird with breath all of a sudden. It was like I was under water, or like I’d completely forgotten the simple, natural body functions of inhale, exhale.

It wasn’t just me who was feeling it. I could tell Logan was off, too — and I was determined to change that.

Pulling the strap from around my neck, I set my camera down, circling the table we sat at and placing my hand over the notepad he was writing in.

He quirked a brow up at me. “Hard to write with your hand in the way.”

“So take a break,” I told him. “We’ve been working all day, and if I’m being honest, the stress rolling off you has been stressing me out.”