Chapter 19
Astrid
I went to bed last night expecting a quiet and stress-free day—taking a long shower, finally sending off that quote the LA mom had been chasing me about for her daughter’s wedding, and maybe later dropping by Kelly’s so we could scout out studio space.
I definitely hadn’t included Aeron in my morning plans. Him at my doorstep, highlighting every embarrassing detail of my face like an auctioneer at a humiliation sale.
I deserved a medal for not slamming the door in his face.
“You showed up without a heads up,” I accused, watching him settle comfortably onto my couch, eyes leisurely roaming the living room. I should give him credit, though. He'd stayed by the door when I'd bolted back into my room, giving me time to become a reasonably acceptable human.
“I rang the doorbell.” He looked at me as if I was the one not making sense.
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. Was he…was he serious ? I’d meant without heads up as in without warning . Not a ding-dong, surprise!
“But it’s morning. Morning-morning, you know, the part of the day universally accepted as Do Not Disturb time by all sane sleep-loving humans.”
People like me, I added thoughtfully to myself.
“It’s nine.” He tapped his watch like a disappointed coach signaling a timeout. “Your morning-morning expired three hours ago.”
Nine o'clock wasn't morning?
I was offended.
Kelly and I used to roll out of bed at noon on weekends, skipping breakfast like it was a sport. But fine. Maybe he was jet-lagged and his internal clock still stranded between here and Africa.
“How did you find my house?”
“You don’t exactly live on the other side of the planet.” He picked up the file from the table. “The festival one?”
I nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. Clever move, answering the question I hadn't asked and ignoring the one I had. He opened the file and flipped through it slowly, thoughtfully scanning each section I'd marked. “I read the plan you sent last night. It’s…” He paused, eyes lifting to mine.
I narrowed mine right back.
I'd spent an entire day researching.
If the next words out of his mouth were “It's bad” or “This is ridiculous”, that thick, shampoo-commercial hair of his was about to receive the worst DIY haircut of its life. With my kitchen scissors.
“…Good.”
I exhaled and unclenched my fists. Abort mission. His hair would live another day.
“Relieved?” He smirked, looking too satisfied for my liking.
My stomach did something stupid, sort of a half-somersault before I shoved it firmly back into place. No! I refused to develop a single feeling for this menace. “Why would I be?”
“I could see you mentally sharpening your knives during that pause.”
My eyes widened a fraction. “Are you a mind reader?” I asked, skeptically.
“So you're openly admitting to plotting my murder? Noted.”
Oh my god! Oh my god! This man is unbelievable.
I strongly suspected that if photography hadn’t been his passion, he’d have made a brilliant detective, the kind who could coax a confession out of you before you'd even committed the crime.
“Aeron.” I folded my arms. “Did you roll out of bed today and think, ‘Hmm, too early to terrorize the neighbors, guess I'll go and irritate Astrid instead,’ or do you actually have a real reason for being here?”
He studied me silently for a second, expression carefully blank, though I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—the closest Aeron had ever gotten to an actual laugh. Apparently, even his ironclad poker face had its breaking point.
“Tempting idea,” he said. “And as much fun as annoying you is, I’m actually here about your note. You mentioned needing deeper research into the town’s history. I know a place that might help.”
My heart skipped strangely at the quiet sincerity behind his words.
He'd noticed that tiny, throwaway detail?
I'd added it to the email after talking to Kelly, just a quick note about needing to understand the town better to give the festival some authenticity.
An afterthought really. And here he was, in my house, early in the morning, treating that little note like it mattered.
“Where?” I asked curiously.
“Ashbourne Hall,” he answered, as though I should've known that already.
“And where here exactly is that?”
“152 Riverview Drive.”
I glared at him. “I asked for a landmark, not GPS coordinates.”
“Orange Falls,” he deadpanned.
Seriously? An entire town as a landmark?
“Get ready. I’ll take you there.” Aeron’s gaze traveled from my hair down to my oversized bubblegum-pink shirt, which hung loosely like a curtain over lime-green shorts.
A housewarming gift from Kelly proof that she was either secretly mad at me or utterly colorblind.
His eyes paused at my slippers: pineapple-yellow with tiny smiling fruit faces.
Aeron’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Although, unless escaped zoo animal is your preferred look, you might want to reconsider this outfit.”
Escaped zoo animal?
“You really have an annoying habit of comparing me to weird things.” I resisted the urge, barely, to fling my pineapple-colored slippers right at his smug grin. Instead, I settled for kicking his shin. Not gently.
“Astridd!” His pained grunt was music to my ears. He doubled over, jaw tight, hissing through gritted teeth. “How does someone built like a toothpick kick like a rhino?”
“I eat my vegetables!” I called over my shoulder, flashing him a triumphant grin. It probably looked smug, but I’d earned it.
There was silence in the car. We crossed the town square without exchanging a single word, like two kids locked in a silent contest where the first one to speak loses.
Aeron was probably still sulking over the kick, or maybe he’d switched his brain back to default mode: Respond only when poked.
I voted for option two. It made me feel less guilty and it made him much easier to predict.
“Where did you take the Phantom Spring ?” I broke the silence.
“Here.”
“Orange Falls has scenery like that?” The town was pretty, sure, but that photo looked like something out of a fantasy, a pinch-me-to-make-sure-it's-real kind of place—somewhere unicorns might sip fruit smoothies and pretend to blend in with the locals.
“There’s so much hidden beauty in Orange Falls that most people never see.” He glanced at me for a brief second. Something in his gaze softened, melting an edge inside me. “Want to see it?”
“Can I?” Just thinking about visiting that dreamy, impossibly perfect spot Aeron had captured sent tiny, fizzy bubbles of excitement racing through my veins.
“Sure.” He nodded, voice calm, and serious. “I’ll send you the coordinates.”
My excitement instantly evaporated into a sharp glare aimed at him.
Give me exactly two seconds to think something nice, and he'd ruin it. “You know, my foot is already ready for another round,” I said sweetly. “And you’re giving me plenty of reasons.”
“Don’t.” His eyes darted nervously to my legs, as if they were ticking bombs. “I’ve already reached my violence limit for today. I’ll take you there someday,” he surrendered.
Panicked Aeron was adorable. It was a shame he kept that side of himself hidden.
“When did you start practicing photography?”
“Ten.”
“Ten?” I gaped. “At that age, my biggest achievement was winning rock-paper-scissors, and you know, I cheated.”
“Starting your criminal career early, I see.” He chuckled. “Not everyone has a childhood like that.” Then softly, almost under his breath, he added, “Wish I had.” His words were barely audible. If we'd been anywhere louder, I would've missed them completely.
For the first time, I saw Aeron’s eyes without their usual armor—but just as quickly, the shutters came back down.
“Do you like capturing places or people?”
“Depends,” he said. “Places are peaceful. But people...there’s something about capturing them unguarded. Every face tells a different story. Take a hundred shots, and you’ll end up with a hundred different truths.”
A photo could tell a story? Reveal a truth?
I wasn’t sure. My experience was limited to wedding photographers snapping away at carefully choreographed poses—first dances, cake-cuttings, romantic dips under fairy lights, all perfectly timed for Instagram likes.
But Aeron was talking about something else: capturing glimpses of truths people didn’t even realize they were revealing.
It made me wonder what truth he saw when he looked at me.
Though, now that I thought about it…
“I didn’t see many pictures of people on your website and Instagram. Mostly it's landscapes. Forests. Majestic birds. Lots of wild animals.”
He shot me a sideways glance, eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. “Have you been stalking my page?”
Shit. Caught red-handed. “I—No,” I said quickly. “It’s not stalking if you posted it for everyone. Stalking involves binoculars and hiding behind bushes. I used Wi-Fi. And maybe a little curiosity.”
“Curiosity, sure.”
For God’s sake, Astrid, why did you have to open your big mouth?
“So, what's your all-time favorite photo you've ever taken?”
His expression said I'd just pulled off the world's most awkward conversational U-turn, but thankfully, he was feeling generous enough not to call me out on it.
“A girl.” He surprised me by actually answering. “She was laughing, carefree…” His eyes held mine, quietly intense, unexpectedly deep. “Completely lost in the moment. No masks, no pretense. Just her being her. It felt like capturing joy at its purest.”
Suddenly, I had an urge to see her. “Is it on your website?”
“That one’s just for me.”
Irritation prickled under my skin. I wasn't sure why his words bothered me so much, just that they did.
“We’re here.”
I shifted my gaze to the tall, vintage building. I stepped out into the sunlight, and immediately squinted. Between the AC at home and in Aeron's car, I'd almost forgotten how heat felt.
I looked up at the bold letters carved above the doors: Ashbourne Hall , established 1908.
“Astrid.” Aeron’s voice broke through my focus.
“Hmmm?” I murmured, absently, still reading the inscription: Official Gathering Hall for the Citizens of Orange Falls.
“Astra Studios.”
I turned to him, confused. That was my website. Why was he randomly mentioning it now? And more importantly, how did he even know the exact name?
“I found your home address there.” He walked past me towards the steps, without looking back.
My cheeks went from cool to blazing-hot in two seconds.
Did he just admit he’d visited—no, stalked, according to our twisted dictionary—my page?
Hypocrisy, thy name is Aeron Ashbourne.
I bit my lip, but the ridiculous smile still danced across my face anyway.
“Such a copycat.”