Time Exposure (Click Duet #2) (Bay Area Duet Series)

by Persephone Autumn

  Gavin inhales deeply and drags me impossibly closer to him. “I could never not love you, Cora Davies.” Everything about his statement is permanent, carved in stone, and I fall inconceivably harder for him.

  The light pink sky blooms into a hot pink-orange as the sun edges closer to the horizon. Darkness fades from the sky as a faint blue comes into view. Another couple walks onto the sand and sits fifty feet from us, phone out and snapping images of the glowing scenery.

  I lean my head against Gavin and marvel in his warmth behind me. His arms holding me close. His fingers drawing soft patterns on my forearms. I sigh and feel the pain of the last thirteen years lift away. Beautiful colors paint the sky. A few clouds linger and add touches of lavender and gray. Feeling like I can finally breathe for the first time in over a decade, I whisper, “Life is perfect.”

  Gavin shakes his head beside me, and I turn to glimpse his expression. A smile stretches his face from ear to ear and displays his perfect white teeth. “There’s only one thing that could make life perfect.”

  His steely-gray irises swirl with love and passion and admiration. I get lost in his eyes. Eyes I missed every day. Eyes no camera captured the way my memories did. Momentarily, I forget what he said and shake my head to snap myself out of the temporary fog.

  “And what’s that?” I ask, matching his smile.

  He lifts an arm from my waist, cups my cheek, and brushes his thumb in small circles. I lean into his touch and sigh. His other arm holds me unimaginably closer. Eyes hold mine as he breathes slow and steady. Quiet for a beat, his expression turns intense. Fierce. One-hundred-percent serious. His lips part and I drop my gaze just as he licks them. “If you were my wife.”

  All air gets sucked from my lungs.

  Twenty-One

  Cora

  Three years ago

  Women swarm the room, buzzing around like worker bees eager to aid the queen. The queen—actually, the bride—sits on a tall chair, labeled “Bride” in silver letters on the back, and breathes heavily while another woman does her makeup. Her thick, black locks are pinned back partially and curled. Eyelids brushed a soft blush. Lips coated in a neutral gloss. A subtle shimmer added to her skin.

  Most brides are so nervous on their wedding day and never remember all the little moments. Like this one in the dressing room of the church. Which is why I am here. To capture the bride with her bridesmaids tending to her. Her mother keeping the bridesmaids—as well as people not in the room—in check. Novelty items such as jewelry and robes and hangers.

  I bring the camera to my eye and snap a handful of images. Before anyone stepped foot in here, I walked around the grounds and took several photos of the church, flowers and various displays. The wedding is nowhere near luxurious. Sherrie—the bride—was adamant about keeping the ceremony clean and simple and pristine. Not an overabundance of flowers or decor. Whites and creams and a hint of blush-pink. Very subtle, but utterly breathtaking. The photos of her gown on the hanger will be coveted for years to come.

  “Twenty minutes, ladies,” a woman shouts from the door before disappearing.

  As if that is the cue they have all been waiting for, everyone’s pace triples. Bridesmaids zip each other up in their blush-colored gowns before removing the bride’s dress from the hanger. Once the makeup artist steps away, the bridesmaids step front and center. I bring the camera back to my eye and snap continuously as they help her into her dress.

  When the dress is in place, her maid of honor hands her the bouquet and everyone steps back a moment, allowing me to take some individual photos of her before she leaves the room. After I finish, hair and makeup step back up and double-check to make certain everything is perfect.

  She makes such a beautiful bride. Something I will never be.

  I shake off the errant thoughts and leave the bridal suite. A moment later, I knock on the door for the groom’s suite. A guy with dark hair, gauge-pierced ears, and a wicked smile answers the door. For a moment, I flashback to another guy who had similar features, a guy I once cared about, but push it aside and slip on my professional mask.

  I lift my camera and waggle it. “Is everyone decent? I’d like to get some photos of the groom’s suite before the ceremony begins.”

  He peeks over his shoulder then steps aside and gestures me to enter. “Sure, we’re dressed. Can’t speak for decent,” he snickers.

  I ignore his insinuation and walk into the room. Snapping a few pictures, I tell the guys to do whatever it is they were doing before I came in. The guys relax and start joking with each other, slapping backs and teasing the groom about how he will only have one piece of ass for the rest of his life. But the groom lights up at the idea and I capture every little tweak in his lips. Every crinkled uptick near his eyes. Every ounce of joy he exudes.

  Love is a funny thing. When you see it with your own eyes, it is unbelievable. Unparalleled. Simple touches—the way he tucks your hair behind your ear or toys with the ends of the strands or draws art on your skin with his fingers or holds you close every chance possible. A small upturn of the lips—just enough to let you know he is thinking of you. A slight lean of the body—because he can never be too close or get enough of you. Love sneaks up on you, slithers itself around your heart like vines, blankets you in warmth and security and joy, and blossoms like a field of wildflowers. It is incredible and incomparable and incomprehensible.

  And I hope to never feel it again.

  I take a few more photos of the groom and groomsmen, excuse myself, and head for the main area of the church. Once there, I walk in and photograph the crowd in the pews. Candid images of family and friends, old and young. People carry on conversations about how the bride and groom met and fell in love instantaneously. They recant how inseparable they are and how they never imagine them apart. After several more clicks of the shutter, I head back to where the bridal party will enter. And thankfully, away from all the puppy-love conversations.

  It isn’t as if I don’t believe in love. Love is real and magical and undeniable. But love is also a rusty, jagged hunting knife in my chest. Twisting and depressing.

  The music shifts and I take a deep breath. Ten seconds later, the groomsmen walk through the large wooden doors. I snap photo after photo. The guy who answered the door to the groom’s suite passes me and winks. I continue taking photos and don’t acknowledge the gesture. If I were any other woman, I would melt into a puddle at his feet. Swoon at the prospect of him asking me to dance later or grab a drink or exchange phone numbers. He is definitely gorgeous, but unfortunately for me, I am far from interested. In anyone. Ever.

  I purse my lips, bring the camera to my eye, and continue photographing the wedding. After all the groomsmen pass, the music changes again. The wedding march—a standard, but elegant choice. Once upon a time, this song popped into my head. Impregnated visions of white gowns and black suits and promises of forever. But I was young and naïve then. I am neither of those things anymore. And after my dreams were obliterated, I am quite content becoming an old cat lady. At least as a cat lady, I will receive nothing but unconditional love.

  The wedding passes and a million photos are taken. But it is not until the reception when I lose my shit.

  Upbeat music fades from the sound system and the deejay speaks up. “This is for all the lovebirds in the room. Grab your guy or lady and head out to the dance floor.”

  A new song crackles through the speakers. A song I haven’t heard in years. One that cracks my heart and cripples me on the spot. The twangy guitar intro to “Better Together” by Jack Johnson floods every available space in the room and drowns me instantly. Tears prick my eyes and, within seconds, roll down my cheeks. An emotional ball the size of a softball lodges in my throat.

  I can’t breathe.

  Fuck. I can’t be here. I can’t be here.

  The groomsman hottie approaches me, a smile plastered on his face until he notices my state. “Hey, you okay?”

  I shake my head. It is too much. A
ll of it. The bride, the groom, the promises, the happiness, the music. One big ball of happily ever after. Something I thought I would have. Until my heart got ripped from my chest and annihilated.

  “I need to leave,” I tell him. “Now.”

  “Do you need a ride? I can drive you.”

  As great as the idea sounds, I decline his offer. The last thing I need is to lose my shit with a guy that resembles the reason why I am crying. All that would lead to is another hot mess.

  After I pack up my camera equipment, I find the bride and groom and apologize for my early departure. Thankfully, all the necessary photos for the wedding have been captured. Now it is just flat out party time. They hug and thank me and then I bolt out the door. Away from the reminder of broken promises.

  When I reach my car, I set everything in the back then get in the car and lock the doors. I sit there, alone in the lot, for over thirty minutes, crying in my hands. Sobbing as if I am sixteen all over again.

  Over the last decade, I have lost so much in my life. All of that loss wraps around one person.

  Gavin Hunt.

  Losing Gavin was like cutting out my heart with a spoon and tossing it in the darkest, deepest parts of the ocean. Without him, I had no reason to love. No desire to love. Nothing has changed. Over the years, brick by brick, I slowly built a towering wall around the space where my heart once sat. Reinforced it with steel beams and barbed wire. Hardened myself to everyone. Family. Friends. I would never allow someone to do to me what Gavin Hunt did—crush my heart and run away with my soul.

  Right here, in the parking lot of the reception hall, where two lovers celebrate their joyous union, I make a vow to myself. A vow that will never be broken, because I hold the key. I am the gatekeeper of this truth.

  “I will never open my heart to anyone ever again. I will never love another person ever again. And I most definitely will never marry anyone.”

  Twenty-Two

  Gavin

  Present

  “Life is perfect,” Cora whispers as we stare toward the rising sun.

  Now that things are finally back as they should be, now that the stars have realigned and I can breathe, life is pretty great. But I wouldn’t say life is perfect. Pretty close, but not quite.

  I shake my head and Cora peers over at me. My smile stretches so tight my cheeks hurt. I can’t help it. This is what she does to me—shines a light on every shadow, lifts me up, makes me feel alive and whole and worthy. When I am with her, life is worth living. A life with her is worth living.

  “There’s only one thing that could make life perfect,” I tell her. For some reason, I feel as if I should be nervous. Should have sweaty palms or be biting my lip or fidgeting. But I don’t have a nervous bone in my body. If anything, I have never felt calmer a day in my life.

  Cora studies me intently, her vibrant green eyes glowing in sunrise. She scans my eyes and forehead before dropping to my lips. She is absolutely stunning right now and I make a mental note to see a million more sunrises with her at my side.

  As if coming out of a daze, Cora shakes her head and asks, “And what’s that?” A hint of teasing lingers on her tongue.

  But I am dead serious. More serious than ever. More than any other time in my life. Nothing in my life or this world matters if Cora isn’t beside me. And I want her beside me through it all. The good days and bad. Our young days and old. With children and grandchildren. I want it all, and only with her.

  I peel one arm away from her waist, frame her cheek in my palm, and swipe my thumb over the soft skin below her cheekbone. As soon as I do, she leans her face into my palm and I scoot closer to her. I stare into her magnificent green irises—a perfect blend of the trees and the sea.

  Cora is everything I want in my life. Beauty and charisma and spunk and passion. She holds the key to my heart and is the guardian of my soul. In the last thirteen years, she has never left me—in spirit, anyway. Every woman I looked at was compared to her. And there was no contest. Hands down, Cora is it for me. There is not a single person walking this earth I want more than her. She gives me breath and life and purpose and love. Without her, I wander the earth with no destination.

  “If you were my wife,” I announce.

  Cora gasps and freezes in my arms. For three of my breaths, she doesn’t breathe once. And then she inhales deeply. Deeper than I have ever heard another person breathe. “Gavin…” She says my name as if it is her dying breath.

  “Cora, I have spent far too much time away from you. Without you, I am a shell of a man. Every second we were apart, I merely existed. It wasn’t until I saw you again that I remembered how to breathe. That my heart remembered it had another purpose other than beating. I dreamt of this day, but feared it would never happen. No more. Life is too short to not spend it with the person who matters most.” I spin around to face her and prop myself up on one knee. “Cora, I know what life is like without you in it. I never wish to experience pain or darkness like that again. Nor do I want you to. The day my plane touched down here, I somehow knew life would be better. I didn’t have the answers, but I felt it in my bones. And I wasn’t wrong. How could it not be kismet bringing us back together? I belong to you, Cora. And I would be honored to be your husband. Will you marry me?”

  Behind Cora, the other couple on the beach have their camera turned toward us. No doubt they’re recording this. Another win in my favor.

  Please let her say yes.

  When she doesn’t say anything for a moment, I remember the box is still in my pocket. Maybe if she sees the ring I bought, she will realize just how serious I am. I fish the soft, black box from my pocket and lift the lid. Nestled inside the box is a two-carat, square-cut black diamond in a tall setting. Along each edge of the black diamond are three smaller white diamonds. Several white diamond chips burrow in the titanium band from top to bottom. Hugging the engagement band is a matching wedding band with larger white diamonds.

  Her hands fly to cover her mouth as she gasps. A second later, she lowers them to her chin. “Gavin…” she whispers. “Oh my god.” Her glazed green eyes dart to mine and tears spill out, sliding down to her illustrious smile. “Yes. A million times yes.” Cora crawls up on her hands and knees and launches herself at me. We fall to the sand and laugh.

  I wrap my arms around her body and squeeze her with every ounce of strength I possess. “Fuck, baby. I love you so goddamn much.”

  After a minute, I sit us up and kiss the hell out of her. She tastes like salt and passion and forever. The best fucking taste in the world. And I am the luckiest man alive because she just said I get to keep her forever.

  When the kiss breaks, I scoot back an inch and take the ring out of the box. She juts her left hand toward me and I slip the link to forever on her ring finger. The second it rests in place; the sun brightens the world more. I slam my mouth back on hers and kiss her as if she has already slipped a ring on my finger. The sooner, the better.

  Forever will never be long enough with Cora. No matter how many lives we live, we will always find each other. Eternally.

  After we dial down our public display, the couple from down the beach walks over and congratulates us. They offer to send us the video they recorded plus a few still pictures and I instantly jump on their offer, thanking them. We talk with them a few minutes before we shake out the blanket, fold it, and walk back to the car.

  The second we get in the car, Cora’s stomach grumbles and we decide to grab breakfast. As we head back toward Clearwater, I stare at the engagement ring on her finger. She isn’t left-handed, but now she proudly drives with her left hand on the wheel. Every time the sun catches her ring just right, a halo flashes on the interior roof of the car.

  Like an angel. My angel. My future wife.

  After all these years, I wasn’t sure if we would find our way back to each other. But we did. And I wasn’t sure if I would see this day. This exact day. The day when Cora and I were back together and she wore my ring on her finger.

/>   And now that the day is here, an odd flutter ripples beneath my ribcage. The sensation light and exhilarating and eternal. Does she feel this fluttering right now? The exultation of finally living the life you were destined to live.

  We pull into a parking lot and hop out of the car. Although we are both dog tired, there is enough adrenaline coursing through our veins to keep us both up all day. I sidle up to her left and slip my hand in hers, loving the way it feels when the ring grazes my palm. Until it comes to fruition, I imagine no other moment or emotion or experience topping this.

  After we eat breakfast, Cora starts driving us back toward her house. As much as I want to lay in bed with her curled in my arms, there is something else I want to do. “Do you mind if we make another stop?” I ask.

  She glances over at me a second, then faces the increasing traffic. The wind whips her hair across her profile as I inhale a hint of her frankincense-gardenia scent. “Yeah, sure. Where to?”

  “I’ll give you directions,” I tell her.

  I guide her through traffic for four or five miles before telling her to pull into a parking lot. When we park, she peers up at the sign, shakes her head, and laughs. “Really? Again?”