Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(64)

Mallory shook her head. “Let me get out of this fucking dress, and then I want to show you something.”

She disappeared into the bathroom with a handful of clothes, and moments later, emerged as the Mallory I found impossible not to fall for. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail, the tendrils that fell around her neck and face curled a bit from how it had been pinned back before. She wore an oversized Nirvana t-shirt and sleep shorts that were practically invisible beneath it, and I watched her legs with desire building like a storm inside me.

“Ready?” she asked, dropping the dress into her laundry basket before smiling up at me. Her face was makeup-free now, blue eyes tired, but shining, and I thought back to a passing thought I’d had, how I’d wished to see her without her eyes lined, her lips painted, her lashes slicked with mascara.

She was somehow even more beautiful, and I wasn’t even slightly surprised.

I think I’d always known.

I swallowed, heart sinking and reminding me how quickly she’d left the night before. So, rather than tell her how devastatingly gorgeous she was, I just tucked my hands in my pockets and smiled. “Lead the way.”

I followed Mallory downstairs, the shop quiet now that the band and guests had cleared out. The place was a mess, though, and I grabbed the trash can near the bar, tossing empty plates and napkins into it as I passed by the various cocktail tables.

“What are you going to do with all these champagne glasses?” I asked, piling them up on one of the empty tables.

Mallory shook her head, stealing the trashcan from me and putting it back by the bar. “I’ll do a special event where basic bitches can paint a set to take home for when they host brunch,” she answered, then she turned, pointing her finger straight at me. “Now, stop cleaning and follow me.”

She looked so adorable, her little ponytail swinging, feet shuffling in her slippers as she led me over to the photography section of the shop. It was just a small corner, right next to the office she’d converted to a dark room, with shelves of lenses and tripods and photography books. There was something hanging on the wall above the shelf, but it was covered with a gray sheet, and she stood in front of it, waiting.

“I was going to uncover this tonight, but when you see what it is, you’ll understand why I wanted to wait,” she said when I took my place next to her. She stared at the sheet like it was a bed hiding a monster, like if she pulled it down, there was a chance she’d be screaming and running for her life.

I cocked a brow. “It’s a beautiful sheet… thanks for showing me?”

She poked my rib, which earned her a yelp and a laugh. “Don’t be a smart ass.”

“Well, what exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” I rubbed the spot where she’d poked me.

“It’s what’s under the sheet.”

“And are you going to show me?”

She pulled her mouth to the side. “I was… but now I’m nervous.”

I laughed. “Why?”

Mallory turned, watching me with worried eyes before she shook her head, and let out a long, meditative breath. “Just… don’t laugh, okay?”

I frowned, confused, but when she stepped forward, took another deep inhale, and tugged the sheet free from the wall — I understood.

And laughing was the last thing on my mind.

It was, perhaps, the most stunning photograph I’d ever laid eyes on. The colors were so rich, it was hard to believe they were real, that it was a moment captured in real life instead of one painted, one imagined. It was pensive, while somehow still being romantic — the decadent hues of orange and yellow bursting across the large photograph, playing with the deeper, darker shadows present there, too. It almost looked black and white, except for where those sun beams stretched, creating an illusion that made you look twice, three times, forever.

And it was me.

I sat on bar stool, back bent, brows furrowed and eyes focused on the notes I was making in a legal pad. It was the pad I’d jotted down all my thoughts for the shop in, from what furniture I still needed to build to how to lay out each section in order to bring Mallory’s vision to life. I balanced a slice of pizza in the opposite hand, one bite taken from the tip, and I had one foot on the floor, the other on the second rung of the bar stool, knee propped up. My hair was wild and unruly, peeking out from under the edge of my old baseball cap, and the muscles that lined my rib cage were visible through the rips in my old Stratford High t-shirt that I’d cut into a muscle tee when I was eighteen.

It was just me. It was just a man eating pizza and writing down his thoughts.

And she’d somehow turned it to art.

The shadow from the window pane stretched over the left half of my face and body, up the wall behind me, cutting the image into four invisible window panes. Those shadows contrasted the soft glow from the sun setting over Main Street, casting me in its warmth. And the way she’d focused in on my face, somehow bringing the viewer’s eye straight to where I was frowning in concentration, it brought a troubling feeling that sat deep within me, like the man I was looking at was going through more than anyone could know — that even though he was just eating pizza and jotting down a few notes, he was in turmoil.

And yet, he was at peace, too.

I stepped closer, eyes scanning the photo over and over, taking in every corner, catching more beauty with every round I made. I didn’t realize how long it’d been, how long I’d remained silent, until Mallory stepped up, trying to throw the sheet over the photo again.