Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“What a way to be greeted,” I say, stepping inside.
I look around the small space, which has more of a modern flair than the outside, with its coffee-colored walls, cream furniture, and stark photography in black frames.
“I like your place.”
“Thanks. Just a little something to call my own,” he replies in a self-deprecating way that makes him seem younger.
A photo above the couch catches my eye, and I head over to take a closer look.
I gawk at the beauty of the sun setting over the water as if the surface is painted in flecks of gold and orange. “Wait a minute, is this your photography?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah.”
“You never thought to do something with all this talent?”
“I sell my photography at the art fair.” He hitches a shoulder. “Have a few prints for sale at the pottery shop in town too.”
“And the service station is…?” I trail off, trying to understand how someone this gifted isn’t doing more.
“Is how I can afford the other things in my life.”
“That’s realistic.” And he has a point. Not everyone can make a living on their passion alone. But has he tried? And why the hell am I so invested?
He waves a hand. “It’s not a bad life.”
I catch a hint of something beneath his words, like if he’s bold enough to admit he’s a gifted artist, it needs to come with a qualifier. He still feels the need to prove he enjoys owning the station. None of my business anyway, though I did come all the way out here to convince him to sell it. Almost feels like we’re beyond that now, even if Rocco leans on me to try harder. I have a feeling there’s a line you don’t cross with Jack McCoy.
Besides, I don’t plan on messing up being invited to his private sanctuary.
“I suppose not.” I walk toward the sliding glass door between the living room and kitchen that leads to a deck and the backyard. That’s when I spot the wooden structure he told me about. “And that’s where you work on your photography?”
“Yep. Storage for my frames, and doubles as my darkroom.”
“I’m impressed.”
His cheeks stripe red as he moves toward the kitchen. He enjoys the compliment but doesn’t want to acknowledge it. “Feel like a drink?”
“Sure, what do you have?”
“Water, beer, whiskey…” He walks to the bottles lying on a rack. “I’m a bit of a red wine connoisseur.”
“You continue to surprise me.” It’s like peeling an onion with Jack. One layer after another gets closer to the center of him.
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“Why not?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head. “I have to remind myself you’re only passing through.”
I see a flash of hurt behind his eyes before he schools his features. Suppose we all have our pasts.
“I’d love a glass.”
His eyes brighten as he reaches for a bottle, and I watch as he peels back the seal and uses the corkscrew to open it with the efficiency of someone who enjoys wine often.
“So, you’ve drilled me plenty. Let’s turn the tables on you,” he says as he hands me a glass. “What’s your end goal—career-wise, I mean?”
Touché. “I’ve been considering going back to my roots, at least on the side.”
“Restoration?” he asks as I take a swallow. The wine is good.
“Good memory.” A little thrill shoots through me. “Yeah, getting my hands dirty again. It’s a lot of work, but it’s satisfying in a way other things aren’t.”
He sips his wine thoughtfully. “I think I get what you mean.”
I glance over my shoulder at the other prints on the wall. “You’re referring to your photography?”
“Yeah, being in the darkroom. Waiting for the photos to develop. On pins and needles how they might turn out.”
“Damn, the way you describe it makes me want to experience it.” I wink. “And maybe I will tonight?”
He meets my eyes, and there’s a promise of something in them. “Maybe.”
I lean against the kitchen island, and when my gaze snags on another photo of the coastline, I blurt, “I asked your aunt how much property is available in Aqua Vista.”
The flirtatiousness in his gaze dissipates. “To buy and flip?”
“Why? Would that be a problem?” It wasn’t my original intention, but now I’m curious about his logic.
“Depends what you plan to do with it and if you care enough about the outcome.” He continues on his soapbox. “The key to small-town life is having residents who feel they have a stake in the community. Some renters don’t, nor do they want one. You should know that more than anyone.”
“Obviously.” It’s true enough that renters sometimes leave our properties a shithole, but damn, what the hell does he think of me? Not much, I guess. Maybe he’s just entertaining my company right now so we can fuck again and part ways.