I stumble to a stop. Paul hears the commotion and turns, eyes widening. “Are you all right?”
“Just got distracted by these photos.” I step closer to get a better look, devouring each one. The composition is stunning; the use of texture, of color, or the lack thereof—every photograph makes my chest ache and my index finger itch.
It’s only when I get to a black-and-white portrait of a young Theo that I realize who the photographer is. Theo’s standing in front of a bodega in what looks like Manhattan, grinning down at a handful of candy clutched in his fist. His knees are knobby and darker than the rest of his skin, as if there’s dirt on them. His hair is curlier than it is now, wild on top of his head. He’s in his own little world, about to indulge in all that sugar.
This portrait is a declaration of love. Showing joy for the sake of it, beautiful and uncomplicated and sitting in the palm of a little boy’s hand.
I turn to Paul. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his head tilted as he watches me.
“You’re a photographer.” He dips his chin in acknowledgment and my heart presses against my ribs, desperate to get back to the beauty of the photos. “You’re incredible.”
“Thank you,” he says with a small smile. “I was lucky enough to make a career out of it. These are some of my favorites, but not all of them.”
I point to little Theo. “I can see why this one is.”
He takes a step closer. “How?”
“Besides the structure, it’s obvious you think this smile is special. The background is shadowed to let him be the focal point, and that “Open” sign illuminated right over his head is like a wink to his expression here.” Paul is quiet beside me, and I start to feel self-conscious. “I mean, I know—knew—Theo, so it’s probably easier for me to pick it out because I know how serious he is, but it’d be obvious to a stranger this is someone you love.”
He nods, an expression I can’t identify crossing his weathered features. “Are you a photographer yourself?”
“No,” I blurt. “Not really. I used to dabble in it. Took classes in high school and college, but nothing serious.”
Paul looks like he doesn’t quite believe me, which is fair. I’m giving him a half-developed picture.
My stomach, always here to remind me of the important things in life, lets out a threatening growl.
“Why don’t we pop outside for lunch?” Paul says. “You can look at these all you want after you’re fed. I’d be happy to tell you the story of each.”
We both know the story I really want to hear, but I nod anyway.
We’re nearly to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard when he turns, his expression innocent. “I forgot to mention—I got my days mixed up, so we’re plus one for lunch.”
Foreboding crashes through me as Paul opens the door, stepping out onto the deck. Before I can form a response, I see a naked back across the yard, curled over a large raised planter box.
“Teddy!” Paul calls out. “Look who it is.”
I sense the awareness in Theo as his back straightens. The ravine running from between his shoulder blades to the waistband of his gym shorts deepens with the movement, muscles stretching and contracting as he looks over his shoulder. He stares at me, his expression unreadable underneath the bill of his Oakland A’s hat. His shoulders lift in a sigh I can’t hear, and he spears the trowel in his hand into the dirt with more force than is strictly necessary.
He only says, “Granddad.”
“I got my days mixed up,” Paul repeats. “I invited Noelle over for lunch and a chat. Why don’t you take a break and we’ll eat?” He turns to me. “Theo is planting some vegetables for me.”
“I see that,” I murmur as Theo stands, yanking his gloves off and letting them fall onto the ground. When he turns, I inhale so sharply I choke on air.
Paul pats my back. “Are you all right?”
“Bug,” I choke out.
More like body. I want to know what kind of devil deal Theo made when he was born. Besides his questionable personality, he was built lovingly and with extreme care by whoever is in charge of those things.
His chest is broad, his skin honey-hued underneath the midday sun. He’s sculpted in an elemental way that broadcasts he knows how to use his body, that the muscles and tendons underneath that smooth skin work for him however he wants them to. It’s so intensely hot I want to run away from it until I find a cold body of water to submerge myself in.
It’s fucking rude that he’s so good-looking. It offends me.
I cross my arms over my chest while he takes his sweet time getting to us. My eyes are fully disconnected from my rational brain, which is screaming to look anywhere but at his chest or his abs or his belly button. What kind of asshole has an attractive belly button?! No, my gaze eats him up, and my lizard brain doesn’t even care that he notices. His mouth pulls up into a tiny smirk.
“Did he give you the same story?” he asks me as he takes the stairs up to the deck.
“Mm-hmm.” I clear my throat. That was basically just a grunt. “We’ve been ambushed.”
“It’s this old brain,” Paul insists, but I see the smile he’s failing to hold back.
A horrifying thought pushes its way past all the horny ones: Is Paul trying to matchmake me and Theo?
You can’t matchmake the unwilling, but my god. I’m a visual creature. I’m not sure how much shirtless stimulation I can take before I break in some way. That would be catastrophic.
Theo braces a hand on Paul’s shoulder, pulling him close. He murmurs, “I know what you’re doing.”
Paul ignores him, gesturing to the dining table set off to the left of us. A cheerful bunch of yellow tulips stretch up from a mason jar. “I’ll be right back with the food. You kids settle in.”
“Do you want some help?” I ask, a little desperate.
“No, no!” He’s already bustling inside, waving a hand over his shoulder.
With a deep, cleansing breath, I pivot back to Theo.
He’s still shirtless.
I’m still affected.
“You can close your mouth now, Shep,” he says with a lazy grin.
I roll my eyes, running a hand over my stomach, which is growling with all kinds of hunger. “It’s because your shoulders are already red, Spencer. I’m appalled by your lack of sunscreen usage. Do you even know what UV rays do to your skin? You’re going to look seventy by the time you’re thirty.”
He twists to eye his shoulder, humming in dismay. “I put some on a few hours ago.”
“You’re supposed to reapply every eighty minutes.” I smile sweetly when he gives me a dry look.
Keeping eye contact with me, he swipes a bottle of sunscreen off the table and starts applying.
This feels like a test. I keep my gaze firmly planted on his face, but the sound of Theo’s palm gently slapping his skin as he applies the sunscreen pings my most animalistic senses.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask.
“Planting vegetables.” He doesn’t say you genius, but his tone doesn’t not say it.
“I mean,” I say, infusing the same energy into my voice, “it’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Why aren’t you at work?”