“It’s fine,” I reply without putting any thought into it. Is it fine? Sure. I trust Mack or I wouldn’t be here, but at the same time, being cooped up in an actual room together may not be in our best interest. Not because I don’t trust him…but because I don’t trust myself not to throw myself at him and beg him to take me against the wall.
“If you’re sure,” he replies, watching me for my reaction.
“Absolutely. I mean, we’re both adults, right?”
Why do I sound so breathy?
Mack opens the hotel room door and allows me to enter first. It’s a large room, probably a small suite. There’s a small seating area with a large television and a half-wall partition. On the other side of the wall is the sleeping area. There are two queen-sized beds with plenty of room between them, nothing like your usual hotel room. This one has space…and the largest bathroom I’ve ever seen.
“Holy cow,” I gasp, taking in the massive bathroom. There’s a walk-in shower with gorgeous tile and glass doors, as well as a big garden tub. “I could swim laps in that tub!”
Mack snorts. “You and baths. You always loved them, with lots of bubbles.”
“They’re one of the purest joys in life, Mack,” I tell him, setting my bag down on the closest bed.
He follows suit, setting the baby carrier on the other bed and taking Oliver out. “I can’t get over just sitting there in your own filth.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s dumb. It’s not like I roll around out on the dirt track before getting into the tub.”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance his way, only to find his eyes…on my ass.
He looks up and doesn’t bat an eye at the fact I just busted him checking me out. In fact, he seems very relaxed and maybe a bit smug about it. There’s something quite sexy about a man holding a baby. Maybe it’s just him. Perhaps it’s the way Mack looks holding his son.
I keep myself busy and try not to think about the man I’m sharing a hotel room with by unpacking my suitcase. When my belongings are in a drawer, the closet, or on the bathroom vanity counter, I pull my trusty camera out of my bag. I’ve only used it a handful of times, mostly to snap a few pictures of Oliver, but I’ve managed to grab a few candids of father and son together without him noticing.
With my camera in hand, I head over to the bed, where Oliver is stretched out, kicking his pudgy little legs. I bring my beloved film camera up and press the button, the familiar sound of the shutter filling the hotel room. I smile down as Oliver stares up at me, his arms flailing around. It’s not his hungry freakout, but one of excitement.
“Why are you so enthusiastic?” I ask, bringing my camera up and taking another few pictures.
“You still using that old thing?” Mack asks, standing off to the side and watching me photograph his son.
I glance at my vintage Nikon F2. These babies were manufactured from 1971 to 1980, and at the time, considered one of the best professional 35mm film cameras on the market. I found it at a flea market, thrown in a box of puzzles, when I was fourteen. The moment I saw it, I had to have it. My dad haggled the guy down from fifty bucks to twenty, and we left that day with more than just a camera. I found my passion, my calling.
“Well, she’s still as amazing as she was back in the day, so why would I get rid of her?” I ask, snapping another photo of Oliver.
“I guess I thought you’d use the digital one more,” he replies, still casually leaning against the wall.
When I turn around, I bring the camera to my face, center him in the view finder, and snap a picture. “Digital is great for Saturday night races. I can edit them on my laptop and upload them quickly in a massive group. But there’s nothing like taking photos with a film camera, not knowing if they’re any good or not until they’re developed. Plus, you know how much I love to develop film,” I remind, a happy little smile on my lips.
He smiles back. “I remember.”
That look, the one with laugh lines framing the corner of his eyes and those sexy, full lips turned upward, is the one I