“Here.” He straightens and a warm palm spreads between my shoulder blades, urging me to bend down and peer through the viewfinder. I do as he says, gnawing on my bottom lip and trying hard not to fixate on how it feels when my gorgeous roommate bends me over.
Get a grip, Jenny.
“Do you see it? The way it’s framed? The way the light—”
“Uh-huh.” His palm is still a warm weight on my back, and god, I’m too hot suddenly despite the chill air. I’m flushed and sweaty under my clothes, and my words sound hoarse. “Yeah, I see it.”
That hand lifts away, and my back shudders as the night air rushes in. The light’s going fast, stars prickling into life overhead, but Lincoln nudges me gently out of the way and snaps a few more photos.
We’ve been at this all day. First the governmental buildings and the grand city parks. Then a flea market and the subway platforms. Lincoln’s city series is a study in contrasts, and he works harder than I ever realized. We’ve barely sat down all day.
My feet ache inside my boots. I’m shivering from the cold, and my belly keeps rumbling.
But I’m out, out in the world, and it doesn’t matter where he takes me in the city—as long as I’m with Lincoln, I feel completely safe.
“You’re doing so well,” he says suddenly, like he heard my thoughts, and I flush with pleasure, wrapping my arms around my waist while I wait for him to finish.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t seem bold to your average person. But I’ve barely left that apartment for over a year, and when I do, it’s like I’m racing against the clock to get back to safety. Back inside.
When was the last time I stood under a night sky? When was the last time I walked through a crowd? Man, I’d forgotten how good hot dogs smell.
My stomach growls again, louder than ever, and Lincoln grins, plucking his camera off the tripod.
“Alright, I hear ya, sweetheart. I’m calling it. Let’s get you fed.”
* * *
“The last trip was the Sahara. You know about that one.” Lincoln dabs a napkin against the corner of his mouth as he talks, a hot dog held aloft in his other hand. “Before that, the salt flats in Bolivia for a travel magazine, and before that, I documented this crazy ultra-marathon that people do through the rainforest.”
There was no mustard on his mouth. He was fine.
I know, because I can’t stop staring at his lips.
Can you blame me? Lincoln has this surprisingly sensual mouth. You see his tattoos and his scruffy jaw and flinty gray eyes, and your brain fills in the gaps—assumes his mouth will be a hard, unforgiving slash with thin lips. But when you look, really look, his bottom lip is all plump and delicious-looking. Taunting me. Tempting me.
His mouth curves up as he smiles. “Jenny?”
“Huh?” I take a massive bite of hot dog, eyes wide, and god, I can feel the guilt splashed over my face. I shouldn’t be staring at him like that. He’s my roommate. Off limits.
I can’t freak him out and make him leave sooner than planned. I’m already gonna miss him so much once he’s gone.
“I asked about the last trip you took.” Lincoln shakes his head, grinning, then reaches forward and wipes a dab of mustard off my cheek. He licks his thumb clean, and I nearly pass out. All around us, fairground-goers huddle around picnic benches, swigging beers and feasting on white trays of wonder from the food trucks, and not a single one of them has noticed that I’m losing my damn mind over here.
Not because I’m out of the apartment. Sitting in a crowd under a night sky.
Because Lincoln touched me, he brushed my cheek then licked his thumb, and maybe if I had an ounce of real dating experience I wouldn’t find that so freaking erotic.
“Um.” My brain is sluggish. Overwhelmed by the bright lights and loud noises and press of the crowd, but most of all by the man sitting opposite me. “I went to a famous fabric store on the coast last year. They have all these unique designs and their own factory, and some of their stuff is handmade too but it’s super expensive…”
I trail off, heart sinking.
It’s no Sahara, that’s for sure.
But: “Go on,” Lincoln urges, leaning closer. The picnic bench creaks under his weight, and no, I will not think about how his muscled bulk would feel pressing down on top of me. Definitely not. “Tell me about it, sweetheart.”
That’s the other thing. Sweetheart. Lincoln probably calls loads of girls that, probably doesn’t mean anything by it at all, but my heart flutters like crazy every time he says it to me.
“I took the train,” I say weakly. “And I stayed in a haunted motel.”