Twisted (Never After #4)(54)

Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, a curious gleam coasting across her eyes. The depth of her stare makes me uncomfortable, like she’s peeling back layers that I didn’t mean to expose and trying to find the broken little boy that’s buried underneath.

She won’t find him there. He disappeared with my piece-of- shit father.

“I love taking photos, but I haven’t done it for real in years,” she says absentmindedly.

“I’ve seen you with your camera several times,” I note.

“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”

“A picture is a picture.”

Her hands smack the couch and she scoffs. “And a diamond is just a diamond, right?”

I tip my drink toward her. “Touché.”

She runs her fingertip along the bottom of her mouth, and my stomach jumps, wondering what her lips taste like with whiskey on her breath.

“You wanna know something?” she asks, a playful gleam in her eye.

I sigh, pretending to be annoyed although I’m anything but. “I assume you’ll tell me regardless.”

“I took photography courses in college.” She smacks her hands over her mouth like she didn’t mean to tell me.

“Wow,” I drawl. “You’re such a rebel.”

She runs a hand through her hair, reaching to the table and grabbing her drink before gulping down the rest and placing the glass back down. “Yeah, well, my father doesn’t know. But like… when I tell you I’ve never experienced true joy with anything the way I did when I was in a darkroom developing my own film?” She shakes her head. “I mean it. Now, everything is instant.” She snaps her fingers. “Digital. But when I was alone in a room with no light, watching memories I captured form in front of my eyes…” She shakes her head. “That’s the only time my mind would stop badgering me with uncontrollable thoughts.”

My chest tightens as I watch longing peek through her face. I hadn’t even known she was seriously into photography. I had always just assumed she was busy spending Ali’s money and frolicking around the city on a flash-in- the-pan hobby she didn’t really care about.

But that’s not this woman in front of me, and now I’m wondering if the version of her in my head ever really existed at all.

“That’s what you love about it? The silence?” I ask, suddenly desperate to know more about her.

She smiles softly. “I love capturing memories. Emotion that’s usually fleeting being frozen forever in time. The wisdom in the gaze of a person who’s lived a full life. The look in someone’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. The joy in their face when they’re laughing at a joke. Photographs help us remember things we’d otherwise forget.” Her grin fades. “I’ve been trying to take some of my father while I still can, but I have to sneak them in when he isn’t looking. If he knew, I don’t think he’d even let me take a snapshot to capture his last moments.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and an unwanted pang of sympathy hits me in the chest.

She gives me a pointed look, her eyes glossy from the whiskey and her unshed tears. “I guess he’s like you and would rather just forget.”

Leaning forward, she grabs the bottle of liquor from the coffee table, refilling her glass and taking a large drink.

“Your father loves you,” I say. “He’s just a proud man. You two really aren’t that different. Both stubborn. Pigheaded. Overachievers.” I pause, not sure how she’ll take what I’m saying but wanting to rile her up anyway. Dealing with her ire is better than dealing with her realness, and I’m uncomfortable with how much I enjoyed hearing about her passion. “You’re more of a people pleaser than him though,” I add. “Must have gotten that from your mother.”

I expect her to shoot back with a smart-ass comment, one that will make me either want to murder her or bend her over and fuck the brat out of her, but she just nods, bringing the glass up to her lips again.

“Wouldn’t know. Never met her.”

“Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky,” I reply. “Moms aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

She tilts her head. “I can’t imagine your mom. Tell me about her.”

I smirk. “You can meet her if you like.”

“Okay.”

Chuckling, I stand up, my head spinning from the alcohol.

Shit. I guess it’s gotten to me more than I originally thought, and if I’m feeling the effects, she must be hammered. Moving over to the couch, I sit down next to her, my fingers brushing against hers as I pull the glass of whiskey from her hand and set it on the table.

The energy in the room shifts, heat buzzing between us, firing against the side of my thigh as it rests inches away from hers.

My stomach tightens and I swallow as I stare at her face.

Goddamn, she’s beautiful.

Slowly, I reach out and drag my fingers down her cheek until I’m cupping her chin. “How many times do I have to tell you to be careful what you wish for?”

Her tongue peeks out, swiping across her bottom lip, so close to where my thumb rests just beneath the pout of her mouth. I swallow hard, my stomach twisting into knots as I hold her stare, this weird tension spreading thin like a string about to snap.