“No,” I demanded, pulling back. “Don’t do that. You’re too good—”
“Nope, flattery will do you no good right about now.”
I pouted. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
He shook his head. “Just be you, Ed. That’s all I want.”
His words curled around my heart, stroking gently, hugging lightly. Such a wonderful man.
So much not for me.
“Fine,” I said, deliberately ignoring that last thought. We were moving on. That was the only way. Done. End of story. No more angst about the decision. “Then I at least promise not to pay someone to Photoshop a curly wig on your head and paste it in front of an Annie poster then put it on my Instagram.”
“Why pay someone when I could do that for free?” he deadpanned.
We stared at each other. His lips hitched up. Mine curved in response.
Then we were both laughing.
And it was like the old Eden and Damon again.
I was glad.
Really, I was.
Seven
Damon
I abided by my promise to leave Eden’s house early and then followed through on my promise to lie in bed for the next twenty-four hours and catch up on bad TV and sleep.
Turned out I wasn’t so good at tolerating the bad television part, but I did a damned good job at sleeping.
Hadn’t had much of that over the last months.
I’d been booked solid, traveling the world and shooting everyone from the latest Oscar winner’s pregnancy shoot—and Artie Miller had been absolutely radiant, so beautiful, in fact, that she’d agreed to sell the image as a cover for a fancy fashion magazine—to images for men’s health publications.
Speaking of that fancy magazine Artie had just graced the cover of, I’d been busy working for them, too. I’d begun six months back at their studios in New York then moved on to Aruba—which I’d paired with another couple of shoots, one for a sports spread in an athlete-driven magazine and another for a series of photographs of a certain reality TV star who was going to use them for a new line of swimsuits and loungewear. After that, I’d been in London, Copenhagen, Iceland, and Australia, until I’d finally come to L.A. to photograph Artie, just over a month before.
She’d been reticent at first, thinking that pregnancy shoots were showy and self-indulgent, but her husband, Pierce, had coaxed her into celebrating the moment. I was glad he’d stepped in.
There was something special about a woman with child—that radiant glow, the life growing within her somehow making her bloom into something even more multifaceted. It was beautiful and Artie even more so, especially because she was so confident in her body. She had been game for everything.
Naked? Sure.
Draped in flowers. Why not?
A strategically placed strip of diaphanous material? Great. Done.
It had been easy and fun and filled with laughter, one of the best shoots I’d done all year and the perfect way to wrap up my long-ass run.
Now I’d cleared my schedule for a couple of months, would enjoy the break, explore southern and central California, and then take some time to visit my family up near the Oregon border.
There were sure to be some interesting characters in the town more famous for pot and naked communes. I’d be able to get some unique portraits in.
So there, I’d been in L.A. for less than a week, I had no work demands on my schedule, and I had a plan moving forward. Good. Done.
Maybe I’d start with Joshua Tree. I’d grown up in California, home being a small town just east of San Francisco, but I’d never been to the national park in the desert, never seen the strange-looking Yucca trees. It’d be good to tick off some of those quintessential California things—or quintessential because I’d grown up here and I wasn’t counting the touristy spots of Disneyland, Yosemite, the Golden Gate, and the like.
I wanted to drive up Highway 1. I wanted to stop in Solvang and get some butter cookies, compare them with their truly Danish counterparts I’d eaten in Copenhagen. I wanted to hike through Lassen. I wanted to take some time and just wander.
But also . . . Eden.
I wanted to be close to Eden.
Except, she had a life and she was going to be busy with her own career and . . . she wanted to be just friends.
I could be friends from a distance. We’d managed that for years.
Maybe I wanted more, maybe I’d seen my chance and leaped . . . and that hadn’t worked out. So, now I should step back. I should focus on friendship and my plan-that-wasn’t-a-plan to bum around California for six months.
I should go back to weekly phone calls and leave Eden to keep wearing her armor.
It wasn’t for show.
It was functional.
She needed it. I got that. Really, I did. I understood that with every brain cell in my sometimes-malfunctioning male brain.
I grinned at her teasing words from the night before.
Eden was funny. Fuck, she could make me laugh like no other. She was smart and gorgeous and strong and . . .
I didn’t want to leave L.A.
Or rather, I didn’t want to leave an L.A. with Eden in it.
I wanted to be here. To be with her.
Except . . . she didn’t want to be with me.
Not in the way I wanted. I needed to accept that. I needed to be what was good for her and—
I jumped out of bed and stalked to the bathroom.
Fuck that shit.
What? Was I going to be a coward and just step aside and not even try? Was I going to throw away the connection, the friendship, the feelings that had grown so deep? No. I couldn’t do that.
I was here. She was here.
We’d taken a step.
It had backfired, yes, but no relationship was smooth sailing. If I was smart and patient and could just play my cards right, then maybe I could have a chance at something more than
