I’d said the phrase while I was checking into the Park City Bed & Breakfast even though I knew it wasn’t true. Harold Timms was a lot of things, but soulless wasn’t one of them.
I knew he had a soul. It was just rotten to the core.
As I sat in the lobby of the Bed & Breakfast, waiting for the guy at the front desk to finish checking me into my room, I stared up at the ceiling, trying my best to figure out a better way to describe my recently deceased father.
Cruel. Heartless. Reckless.
Quite a few adjectives came to mind, and yet, none of them really felt right. Besides, how heartless could my father have been when we both had at least one friend in common, a man who seemed to have had a big heart, even though he hadn’t known how to show it.
Edward Williams.
He’d died a few months ago, a loss that’d shaken me to my core. Edward and I had been good friends for years, even though I couldn’t comprehend how he could ever stand to be around my father. It was one of the greatest mysteries of my life and losing Edward hadn’t brought me any closer to figuring out the answer.
And then, my father died.
Which meant that I’d never be able to ask either one of them about the nature of their friendship or how they were able to find anything to talk about despite their beliefs about nearly everything being on opposite ends of the spectrum. Even though I’d resigned myself to never understanding what made them actually like each other, there was something so disheartening about never being able to ask either of them questions ever again.
I hadn’t really had time to grieve Edward’s death. And I didn’t have time to process my father’s death either. I’d come to Park City to handle whatever affairs Harold hadn’t taken care of while he was still alive, the things he may have kept hidden in the shadows or just didn’t feel were important enough to deal with while he was still breathing. And even though I was here under unfortunate circumstances, I couldn’t deny that I was slightly grateful for the break from work.
Being a world-renowned photojournalist was starting to lose its shine. It was funny, I’d worked so hard to get to the point that I was at now, where I was the first phone call for news outlets in Paris, Montreal, London, New York. Every major news hub wanted me to be the one working their latest stories, international scandals, in-depth reporting on UN gossip, or politicians behaving badly. I’d been side by side with reporters breaking major stories for the last fifteen years, my camera always on hand, my photos always up for award after award.
But I was getting tired. Hopping on a flight after spending less than five hours in a foreign city wasn’t exciting anymore, it was exhausting. I felt like I lived on red-eyes and I’d become much too familiar with the restaurant layout of every major airport on the planet. If I had to grab another overpriced burger and beer while I waited for a gate to finally start boarding in a language I barely understood, I was going to lose my mind.
“Jack Timms?” A voice floated over to where I sat, my face still turned up toward the ceiling.
I lowered my head in response. “Yep. That’s me—”
My words seemed to evaporate from my throat as I stared over at the man who’d called my name.
Holy fuck.
He was beautiful. His jawline was chiseled, reminding me of marble statues that I’d so often seen in museums, and there was a look in his eyes that seemed kind yet analytical, like he was sizing me up with ones and zeroes running through his mind, even as a warm smile remained on his face.
There was something else about him too, something I couldn’t put into words. If I’d believed in things like auras, it would have been the word I’d use to describe the air that seemed to encircle the man, an unnamable quality that was both disarming and welcoming, like I would’ve been able to trust him with my life even though I’d only met him a few seconds ago.
“You are Jack Timms, right?” The man smiled. “Sorry for asking twice. It’s just that you only sort of half-answered the first time, and if I put you in the wrong person’s room, my brothers will