Chapter 9
The shoot was going perfectly. I was so wrapped up in angles, lighting, and placement of the wine bottle that I had completely forgotten about every complication in my life, including the one who had obediently taken every direction from me.
But now, on the final shoot, the one where I wanted a couple wrapped up in each other, the bottle of wine in his hands, I realized perfection was an illusion, and this was downright uncomfortable.
“I just need you to place your arms like this,” I said, grabbing Wyatt’s arm and wrapping it around my stomach.
My body tightened as the weight of his hand settled on my stomach, and a sharp pulse of shame flickered through me.
I had never lied to him, not really, but this…
even though words never came out of my mouth, it felt like the biggest lie of all.
The camera was set up on the tripod, and I had us angled toward it. When we got the poses down, I would set the self-timer and hopefully nail the shots.
Wyatt’s mouth brushed my ear. “Like this?” A chill ran up my spine, sending a burst of electricity through my body.
I closed my eyes, settling myself into this new reality, trying my hardest not to turn and kiss him. Tears pricked at my eyes, and I hated every fucking second of this. Why couldn’t he just marry me? Why couldn’t we just want the same things?
Why did I want more than he was willing to give?
God, he was making me question every decision I had made.
“Yes,” I said, stepping away from him. “Like that.” I didn’t look at him. If I did, I would crumble. This was already too hard. “I need to set the timer.” I hurried to the camera, made all the necessary adjustments, set the timer, and ran back to Wyatt.
His arms instantly wrapped around me, pulling me close. His scent hit me like muscle memory— cedarwood and soap, the smell of a hundred mornings tangled together in bed. My lungs burned with the effort it took not to melt into him.
“Relax,” Wyatt murmured, his breath brushing against my skin like a caress. “You’re shaking.”
Because I still love you. Because I ended things with you, and I don’t know who I am without you.
The camera beeped, cutting through my thoughts.
He tightened his hold as the shutter clicked. His thumb brushed the fabric of my shirt, just around the place that would swell in a few months’ time. My pulse raced, breath shortened, but I forced myself to focus on the next pose and not the tender touch of his hand.
The camera beeped again. He locked his hands together, resting them on top of my stomach, and I placed my hands on his. Images of family photos holding a baby and not a bottle of wine popped into my head, but I quickly forced them out of my mind.
I couldn’t think about that.
“Okay, and done. Now let’s try the one behind the barrel.” I stepped from him too fast, catching my foot on a divot in the grass. My body swayed forward, and Wyatt’s hand snaked around my waist, pulling me close and holding me steady.
“Whoa,” he said. “Almost biffed it there.”
His warmth clung to me like the security blanket it had always been.
“Almost.” I laughed and moved away from him again before I sank into his arms. I didn’t even need to look at him to know the smile on his face had fallen.
“So if you can just take your place.” I motioned to the barrel, keeping my eyes glued to the camera screen.
“Yeah, sure.”
Wyatt obeyed, running a hand through his dark hair before stepping into place, that familiar crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth.
He always obeyed when I used my professional tone.
He respected my space, even when all I wanted was for him to ignore my words and close the distance, wrap me back in his arms and tell me he would marry me.
He adjusted the bottle, wiped a nonexistent smudge from the label, and said softly, “You always get this look when you’re in the zone.
It’s kinda hot.” His dark eyes crinkled at the edges, the boyish charm he wore like armor slipping into place.
The corners of my mouth twitched despite myself. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me laugh right now.”
“Why not?” he asked, his tone way too gentle, making it worse.
Because if I laugh, I’ll cry.
Instead, I lifted the camera and framed the shot, hiding behind the lens because it was the only place I could control the blur.
“Okay,” I whispered, snapping photo after photo. His profile was sharp in the golden light, dark hair slightly unruly, the sunlight catching on the bottle, on his eyes, on every part of him that used to belong to me.
When I was done, I lifted my head from the camera, my chest tight. “That’s it. We’re good.”
He looked at me for a long beat, his expression completely unreadable, then nodded. “Right. Good.”
But as he turned away, I caught the flicker in his expression. It was the same devastation I’d been trying so hard to hide.
Perfection really was an illusion.
And these photos I would use to promote love and happiness at the vineyard would be proof of that.