Page 9 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"I don't like being photographed."
"I noticed." I take a step toward him. "But I'm good at what I do. I won't make you look... I don't know, whatever you're afraid of looking like."
"I'm not afraid," he says, bristling.
"Then prove it." I lift my camera. "One shot. If you hate it, I'll delete it."
He sighs, resignation in the slump of his shoulders. "Fine. One."
I approach slowly, like I would a skittish animal. "Stay right there, in that light. It's perfect."
He stands awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. I reach up and adjust the collar of his flannel shirt, my fingers brushing his neck. His skin is warm despite the morning chill.
"Relax," I murmur.
"Easy for you to say."
"Just look at me." I position myself, frame the shot. "No, not like you're facing a firing squad. Like you're seeing something interesting."
A small furrow appears between his brows. "Like what?"
"Like... like you're seeing a deer in the distance. Or a particularly impressive cloud formation. Whatever men find fascinating."
That gets me an eye roll, which is perfect—it breaks the tension, makes him human. I capture that moment—the slight softeningaround his eyes, the quirk of his mouth, the way the sunlight catches in his beard and turns the silver strands to gold.
"There," I say, lowering the camera. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Like a root canal," he deadpans, but there's no heat in it.
I've photographed hundreds of people, from celebrities to strangers on the street. I know how to capture essence, how to find the story in a face. But this...
In the photo, Victor looks straight at the camera—at me—with an expression that's both guarded and exposed. There's wariness in the set of his jaw, but something else in his eyes. Something raw and wondering, like he's seeing something he thought was lost. The morning light carves his features into sharp relief, emphasizing the strength there, but also the vulnerability.
It's the best portrait I've ever taken. And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that fact, or with the strange flutter in my chest when I look at it.
Chapter 4 – Victor
She's bathed in morning light. Golden hour, photographers call it, but they're wrong. Gold is too simple for what happens when this particular sunlight catches in Jade's dark curls, turning them almost burgundy at the edges. When it traces the curve of her cheek as she kneels to pack her camera gear, careful hands moving with practiced precision.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring. I can't seem to stop.
Something changed in that glade. When she cried about her father—not dramatic sobs, just quiet tears she tried to hide—I felt a wall inside me crack. And when she took my picture, those sharp eyes seeing right through me, the crack widened.
I don't like it.
"Ready to head back?" Jade calls, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. "I'm starving."
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak normally. This feeling, this awareness, is dangerous. She's half my age. Mark's daughter. A temporary visitor to a life I've carefully constructed to keep people exactly like her—bright, curious, persistent—at bay.
We start down the trail, me leading the way. The path is steeper going down, loose gravel and exposed roots creating natural hazards. I slow my pace, hyperaware of her steps behind me.
"That was incredible," she says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. "The light, the flowers... thank you for showing me."
"You're welcome."
"He speaks!" She laughs. "I was worried the morning magic had worn off and we were back to Grumpy Victor."
"I'm not grumpy," I mutter. "I'm reserved."
