Chapter One
Three Weeks Later
M att placed some brochures for his psychiatric practice on a table at the annual health fair sponsored by Fenway Health.
He often got referrals from the LGBTQ+ friendly medical center, and he made it a point to reserve a table every year.
Recently, his practice had become well known for offering mental health services for individuals in the community.
He hadn’t opened his practice with that specific intent, but was more than happy to have the confidence of his brothers and sisters.
Matt looked across the large meeting hall and nearly swallowed his tongue at the beauty of the man on the other side of the room.
Black silky hair floated across the width of his shoulders, his wide chest tapered down to a lean waist above jeans that molded to his hips like a second skin.
He looked up at Matt and their gazes locked.
The other man’s eyes flared open and his chest expand with a great gasp.
Matt hoped the response stemmed from attraction.
Matt caught his breath as the man left his table and crossed the floor.
He wanted to look busy, but couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the vision heading toward him.
As the man got closer, Matt could see the high cheekbones and a straight nose above full lips.
The man's dark eyes had Matt hypnotized, and his heart hammered in his chest.
“Hello. I’m Niall Roberge.”
The soft voice rumbled low in the man's register, and goose bumps sprouted on Matt’s arms in response. He grasped Niall’s outstretched hand. “Matt Lincoln. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you as well.”
Niall’s skin had a dusky olive hue, and his hand radiated warmth.
The tone wasn’t quite like Matt’s own Mediterranean heritage.
Niall may have Native American ancestry, but Matt was unsure of the extent or particular nation.
He was reluctant to release Niall’s hold, but eventually allowed his arm to drop and their physical connection broke.
However, Matt still felt some invisible fiber tethering him to Niall’s presence.
“What is it you do, Matt? What brought you here today?”
“I’m a psychiatrist. I come to this health fair every year, since Fenway has been an excellent source of referrals for my practice. How about you?”
“I represent Fenway’s trauma recovery group—”
Matt’s pulse sped up a fraction. “You’re that Niall?”
“Yeah.”
“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt. It’s nice to finally put a face to a name. I’ve counseled several of my patients to join your group and they’ve without fail come back to me and said how amazing you are to work with. Are you a counselor, psychologist, social worker…”
Niall held up his hand to stop Matt’s barrage of questions. “None of the above. I’m a photographer.”
Matt was a little taken aback by Niall’s response.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Niall said, smiling. “What does a photographer have to do with a trauma support group?”
Matt nodded his head
“My studio specializes in fine art photography, but I have a project that allows victims of bashings to come and have their portraits taken without air-brushing. I show them that despite scars and bruising, the victim’s true beauty and strength lays within their souls, not their bodies.
You'd be surprised how many victims believe they are ugly and unlovable, even after their physical wounds heal.
A small part of Matt’s heart, which had been reaching out for Niall, snatched its phantasmal hand back as if it burned.
It crushed Matt’s idealistic impression that this man, who’d ostensibly appeared to epitomize a selfless supporter of survivors struggling to get back on their feet, would take advantage of their vulnerability, then profit from it.
After a few seconds, Matt thought more about Niall’s words, not his actions. He could see Niall’s point.
“It’s an interesting concept, but how do you get these men and women to sit in front of a camera and expose such a painful part of themselves?
Don’t the photos seem as if they’re a permanent reminder of the survivor’s ordeal and vulnerability?
As a psychiatrist, I work with them to move forward, not look back. ”
“Ah, therein lies the misunderstanding. I show the survivors who come to me that their bodies are still beautiful despite the imperfections. It helps the healing process, rather than hinders it.”
Matt thought about what Niall said. “Even if in the end it helps them, how can you justify splashing their pain up on your gallery walls … then profiting from it?” Matt finished loudly.
Niall’s jaw dropped, and Matt watched the blood blanch beneath Niall’s swarthy complexion.
“Display? Profit? I don’t do either of those things.
Those portraits belong solely to the subject.
I give them all the digital files and any prints made at no charge.
If they have a partner and he or she joins them, I do a free sitting and they have the option to purchase those prints, but not the others. I would never to that!”
Matt felt about two inches tall. He’d jumped to conclusions and chastised a man he’d just met based on a few words. It was certainly no defense, but Matt’s only excuse was that he became enraged with what Matt thought was disreputable behavior by someone with whom he’d felt an instant connection.
“Oh, Niall. I’m sorry. I … there is no excuse… I’d like to see your work sometime if you’d be willing to show me.”
Niall pinned Matt with his eyes. After several seconds, he pulled out a business card from his wallet. “Here’s my information. Please call me, and I’ll be happy to show you around.”
Matt ran his thumb over the embossed lettering of the card. “I will and … thank you.” A loud noise echoed through the community center as staff opened the double doors. Immediately, men and women started filing in. “Guess that means we’re on.”
Niall’s gaze had never left Matt’s face. “I hope so.” He then turned and walked back to his booth on the opposite side of the room.
The afternoon flew past. Matt’s table saw a constant stream of individuals either browsing or serious about reaching out for help.
He used his iPad to access his office schedule and set up a healthy number of consultations for the coming weeks.
It seemed the fair had been another success for his professional life, and if Matt read Niall correctly, maybe he hadn’t totally FUBAR’ed up the encounter with the sexy photographer.
He smiled at the thought and looked up, only to find that Niall’s table was now empty.
With a sigh of disappointment, he set about packing his materials away.
That’s a shame. I would have liked to look into Niall’s dark eyes one more time today. Well, at least I know how to get in touch with him.
In a moment of panic, Matt forgot where he’d put Niall’s card.
He frantically patted his pockets for a few seconds until he found the small rectangle of card stock.
Niall's studio was called Roberge Photographics. The address was in the Fort Point neighborhood where many of the high-end artisans set up shop. Matt had spent some time down there not too long ago. Excellent restaurants and superb window-shopping opportunities abounded. Matt wondered if he’d passed Niall’s studio and not realized it.
It seemed like the ball was in Matt’s court. Good thing he was a consummate athlete.
Two days later, Matt sat at his office desk and stared at Niall’s card.
The black lettering blurred, and Matt rubbed his eyes with the base of his palm.
He knew his nerves had gotten the better of him over the last couple of days.
Since the health fair, Matt had talked himself in and out of calling Niall so many times, he didn’t know up from down or left from right anymore.
His behavior that day still mortified him.
Matt had always thought of himself as a rational person, able to see both sides of any picture.
Look at what he did for a living, for cripe’s sake, but one look into the inky pools of Niall’s eyes and all Matt’s common sense went out the window.
Niall’s last words rang in Matt’s head. He picked up the receiver to his desk phone and punched in the numbers listed on Niall’s card.
Three rings later, he got a voicemail, and regardless of how cowardly it seemed, he breathed a sigh of relief.
When the tone sounded, Matt kept the message short and sweet, during which his phone line beeped to signal another call.
He left his phone number quickly, then switched over to the caller. “Dr. Lincoln speaking.”
“Matt?”
“Niall?”
Matt heard a soft but clear expletive beneath Niall’s breath.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” Matt guessed he had his answer about Niall’s desire to see him again.
He stabbed the disconnect icon. However, not a few seconds later, the phone rang and the number that showed on the screen was Niall's.
"Fuck," he considered ignoring the call, but sending it to voicemail was passively aggressive and rude, and Matt couldn't bring himself to do it.
“Dr. Lincoln.”
“Why’d you hang up?”
Niall’s voice sounds hurt, but that doesn’t make sense.
“I heard you curse when you found out the caller was me.”
“No! I mean yes. I did, but not because —” Niall took a deep breath and let it out. “Can we start this over?”
Matt smiled. “I think sounds like an excellent idea.”
“Good. I didn't aim the curse at you. I’ve been expecting a call from a client about a huge potential job. It would mean a significant increase in international exposure for my studio.”
“That’s fantastic!”