Chapter 9
The absolutely devastating part of going down all those steps to get to the bottom of Kerie Crater is that one must return up all those steps.
To my embarrassment—which is practically becoming a third person on this trip with us—I make Ben stop at least five times so I can catch my breath and let the burn in my calves cool.
And yet, is our itinerary for the day complete?
Suki says no.
We press onward to Gullfoss Falls to complete our tour of the Golden Circle. Despite the parking lot’s close proximity to the falls, my shaky thighs force me to wobble like a penguin, and even the smooth, paved path feels like a special kind of torture designed specifically for my ass.
But once Gullfoss comes into view, I see that we aren’t at just any old waterfall.
Gullfoss is a monster.
A crevice in the earth with water gushing over the edge of not one, but two separate falls, the combination creating a drop of over one hundred feet and a magnitude of such force it could sweep me and every tourist here away in all of zero-point-two seconds to never be seen or heard from again.
“This is fucking massive,” Ben echoes, camera perched at eye level.
The awe in his voice matches the awe filling my chest, and I know then that Ben understands my need to see the world in a way no one else in my life ever will.
On this trip, I’m learning this photography thing isn’t just a career he stumbled into out of need, no matter how it started.
I think he feels it, too, that deep-seated desire to see every place this world has to offer, impossible as it may be.
By the time we make it back to the hotel in Reykjavík several hours later, my body is on the verge of collapse.
Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but I do limp down the hallway before coming to a stop outside our hotel room doors.
Before we part ways, I say to Ben, “Suki’s itinerary has us exploring the nightlife scene in Reykjavík tonight, but honestly, I don’t think I can leave this hotel again.
In fact, I don’t think my swollen feet can even fit in normal shoes right now.
I know at least three of my toes would start bleeding if I even tried.
” Mason had warned me to break in my hiking boots before the trip, but with only two days to prepare, what was I supposed to do, wear them around the streets of Brooklyn?
Ben’s lips curl into an amused smile as I lean against my door, unable to support my own weight another second. “Well, we can’t have bloody toes, can we? What about dinner, though?”
He poses an important question. As tired as I am, I’m also fucking famished. This must be how elite athletes feel. “I think my dinner plans are going to consist of ordering room service and crying in the shower. But you should still go out. Don’t let me keep you from enjoying your night.”
Tilting his head, Ben appears to think it over for a moment and then says, “I’m not much of a nightlife kind of guy. Room service sounds great.”
Straightening as I push off my door, an involuntary whimper slips past my lips. I can only hope that a good night’s rest eases this full-body soreness and tomorrow I’ll wake miraculously feeling normal again. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”
Ben’s hand lands on my forearm, stopping me before I can limp into my room. “Would you, uh, maybe want to join me for dinner?”
“But…” I blink up at him. “Oh. You mean in your room?”
“It would just be two physically exhausted people having dinner together.”
“Right.” Right, right, right.
“I mean, if you don’t want to that’s completely understandable,” he says. “No big deal. I just thought it might be better than both of us eating alone.”
Ben sounds casual. So I should be casual, too. Because yeah, it’s totally casual. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Just let me shower and I’ll be over.”
Ben smiles and releases my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake.
Super casual.
* * *
An hour later, I feel like a new person.
Well, a new person with an aching lower half, double shin splints, and a blister on my little toe the same size as the toe itself.
But at least I’m scrubbed clean, and the hotel hairdryer did a halfway decent job of drying my hair.
I pull on yoga pants—no hard pants for this beat-up body tonight—and a loose tee, then dab a bit of concealer under my eyes, add a touch of blush to my cheeks, and slide a shimmery gloss across my lips.
(Absolutely unrelated to dinner with Ben of course.)
At least that’s a portion of the case I present to myself in the mirror, along with phrases like, Who cares if it’s his hotel room?
and It’s no different than having dinner with any other photographer.
With a deep breath and a vow to myself that this meal will be purely professional, I pad into the hallway in a pair of flip-flops.
When the neighboring door eventually swings open after several knocks, Ben stands before me bare-chested with gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, golden brown hair still damp from the shower.
Unable to keep my eyes contained to his face, my gaze sweeps over a body that is all lean muscles and deep ridges, like he’s an Olympic swimmer on the side or something.
There’s a sparse patch of dark hair in the center of his chest, and on his inner right biceps is a shaded black tattoo of a camera. Not just any camera, his camera.
This is definitely no dinner with any of my other photographers. All of whom wear shirts to most engagements.
“Sorry,” he says in a rushed voice as I force my eyes back to his face. “I got distracted transferring today’s photos to my laptop and lost track of time. Come on in.”
I follow Ben inside his room—definitely not checking out the muscular planes of his shoulder blades or the fantastic curve of his ass.
Ben pulls out a clean black T-shirt from a meticulously packed open suitcase on a small sofa in the corner of the room and tugs it overhead.
Averting my eyes, I focus on the desk along the far wall where images from Gullfoss Falls light up his laptop screen.
I make my way over and lean forward for closer inspection.
“Shit, Ben. At this point, I don’t know why I bother journaling about these sites. I could write an entire book based off one of your photos.”
Over my shoulder, I see the self-deprecating shake of his head as he approaches. “You’re being too generous. Really. Those aren’t edited yet.”
“Still. They’re incredible.”
“And your article will be, too.”
Silence falls around us, but I break it before it gets too heavy by locating the room service menu and deciding what I want to eat.
While Ben calls in our orders, I lean closer to the laptop screen and prop my chin in my palm, taking the liberty of clicking through a few more images, each one mesmerizing in its own unique way.
Finishing his call, Ben hangs up the phone on the bedside table and sidles up beside me.
I glance up at him, wordlessly—and belatedly—asking permission to continue, and he nods.
I take my time, studying each photo like I’ll be quizzed on it later.
Then I reach the photos from Kerie Crater and pause on a black-and-white still that makes the air catch in my chest. Ben and I are seated on the bench in front of the rippling water, our backs to the camera as we stare out at the raw beauty surrounding us, our bodies tiny in comparison to the crater that engulfs us, but I suppose that’s the point.
“How’d you take this one?” I ask.
“Oh. My tripod was set up behind us. The camera works off a remote.”
I rise to my full height and turn to him. Ben scratches at his jaw, expression uncertain. For whatever reason, he seems embarrassed I’ve stumbled upon this image.
“I should’ve asked your permission before I took it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s gorgeous.”
His uneasy expression relaxes into a smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
My pulse kicks up several notches as he looks down at me, his fresh, soapy scent swirling in the air around us. I fight the urge to reach for him, to grasp his soft T-shirt between my fingers and pull—
Fuck.
Perhaps coming to Ben’s hotel room wasn’t the best idea after all. Who could’ve guessed?
Abruptly turning away, I make my way to the round, two-person table near the window, knowing I need to get control over myself before I let something reckless happen.
Sinking into a chair at the table, I change the subject to something safe.
Work. That tiny little thing I was brought here to do.
“You know, if you worked for Around the Globe, you’d get all the best assignments.
I’m sure Calvin would let you handpick your locations. ”
Ben takes the seat across from me and studies me for a moment before asking, “Why do you keep bringing up me working there?”
“Do I?” Feigning innocence, I press onward.
“I’m just saying, you had to be a little interested to take this assignment.
And I know how much Calvin wants you at the company.
” I briefly consider telling Ben the truth, that my promotion may in fact depend on his acceptance of a position at Around the Globe.
But admitting to Ben that not only does Calvin deem my work unworthy on its own merit, but also that I’m not the world-traveling writer he thinks I am, well, that would be humiliating in a way I couldn’t handle.
“So you like working there then?” Ben asks. “It’s what you pictured all those times you told me about wanting to see the world?”
Oof. Well, this is a dilemma. “It’s a great job and I’m fortunate to have it,” I say diplomatically. And it isn’t a lie. I’m very well aware that a lot of people would love to have the career I’m blessed with. It’s one of the reasons I feel guilty for wanting more.
“That’s about as vague an answer as you could have given,” he presses.