she noticed, for a little leather book sitting in the centre of the bed. Moving closer, she picked it up and realised…
“This is a photo album.”
“Yep,” Nate said.
She bit her lip on a smile. “What’s in it?”
“Three-hundred and sixty-five days.”
Hannah arched a brow.
“That’s how long it’s been,” he said, “since you told me I could take pictures of you.”
Oh, fuck. “I… I forgot about that.”
“I know you did.” He smiled, slow and sexy, leaning against the doorframe. “But I didn’t.”
Well, crap. Looking at 365 photos of herself was not Hannah’s idea of fun, but she loved Nate’s pictures. And she loved the fact that Nate was taking pictures at all. He’d been doing so more and more ever since Shirley’s symptoms had begun to improve, and nothing made Hannah happier.
So she wasn’t going to refuse to look. That would just be childish. But she did sit down first, just in case the sight of her own awkwardness was painful enough to bowl her over. Then she took a deep breath, opened the album, and looked at the first picture.
She knew it was her—or rather, the palm of her outstretched hand and the inside of her wrist. The garden formed a verdant backdrop, blades of grass standing out bright and sharp against her skin. Yes, it was definitely a picture of her. But something about it seemed too perfect, too bright and alive, to be anything as mundane as a slice of reality.
The next image was just as ethereal. The tips of her braids hung against the small of her back, dark plaits striking against her white shirt and scarlet skirt. She could see a thin band of brown skin where the two items of clothing didn’t quite meet, and even that—just plain skin—seemed somehow…
“Magical,” she murmured. Then she looked up, the question suddenly urgent. “How do you make normal things look so magical?”
He gave her a one-shouldered shrug, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe that’s just you.”
“Don’t flatter me. It’s some fancy, technological photography thing.”
His lips twitched. “No comment.”
“Come here. Sit with me.”
He came over slowly. When he sank on to the bed beside her, she finally realised why he seemed slightly edgy.
So she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I like them. Thank you.”
Something about him relaxed, even as he shook his head. “You only just started.”
“I already know I love them all. But I suppose,” she sighed dramatically, “I’ll look through the rest. Just to make sure.”
He laughed and tugged one of her braids. “Go on, then.”
So she did. She flicked through 365 pictures of herself, from her lipsticked mouth to the shadow of her profile in the moonlight, to Josh’s legs dangling between hers as he sat on her lap. She saw 365 versions of herself through the eyes of a man who loved her. And when she was done, Hannah set the album carefully aside and threw herself—literally threw herself—at Nathaniel Davis.
He caught her, obviously.
They fell back against the bed, him laughing, her covering his face in kisses. “Hold on,” he managed to say between chuckles. “I’m not done.”
“Oh?”
“No. I just wanted to let you know that I’d like you to start planning your proposal. If you’re amenable.”
Was it possible to break your own face by smiling too hard? Hannah really hoped not. “I’m definitely amenable. Enthusiastic. Eager, even.”
His brows shot up. “You are? For real?”
“For real.” She ran the tip of her nose over his throat, his jaw, his cheekbone. Just touching him, simply because she could. “You’re mine, and that isn’t changing. Might as well make it legal.”
With a wicked grin, he rolled them over until his body covered hers, his hard chest pinning her against the mattress. “I’m yours?”
“That’s right.” She pressed a kiss to his throat. “And I’m yours.”
His answering whisper rolled over her skin like a touch. “No matter what.”
The End.
Next Up: What’s a little fake dating between friends? Zach and Rae are about to find out. Spending the weekend pretending to be in love is one thing—but sharing a bed is something else entirely…
That Kind of Guy
Ravenswood Book 3
For the readers.
Content Note
Please be aware: this book contains depictions of emotional abuse and mentions of unwanted sexual encounters that could trigger certain audiences.
1
Zach was furious, and it felt good.
He bent over the anvil, laser-focused, a vicious energy burning through his bloodstream. This was his molten world of metal and flame, where his anger was acceptable, even reasonable. Here, it gave him strength. And so, at work, where no-one he loved could