Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series), Persephone Autumn [read aloud books TXT] 📗

besides, I am sure everyone has moved away. I mean, who stays in the same place they grew up? As soon as they come of age, most people move away.

But a part of me begs the universe to let me see her again. Even from a distance. See how she is. If she is with someone. Happy. What she looks like. Has she changed from the girl I knew? God, I hope there is no animosity after all these years. After everything, I hope she doesn’t hate me.

The plane taxis down the runway and we are off the ground seconds later. I pinch my eyes shut and focus on the music blaring in my ears. The music blankets the roar of the engine just barely, but does nothing to mask the vibration. Or the queasiness in my gut.

Just breathe, dude. The chances are slim.

Chapter Three

Cora

“Where do you want me to put this?” Erin asks as she holds up the soft umbrella reflector.

I point over to the left of a small side table. “You can set it there. The stand should be ready, if you could put it on there for me.”

“You got it, boss,” she jokes.

The first day Erin and I worked together, she called me boss. I told her to never dub me with such a title again. Although she has worked as my assistant, we had known each other beforehand. Erin is my friend, who just so happens to help me with my job and I compensate her. We work well together and there is no sense in ruining a good thing.

But since that first day, when our friendship added business partners, she lives to mess with me. To keep our relationship light and fun and not so work-y. So, calling me boss is her work version of sarcasm. And I love all her witty and sarcastic tendencies.

Erin fumbles with setting up the lighting while I do some test shots with my camera. I point the camera off in the distance, catching sight of a few passersby and pressing the shutter release. Pulling the camera away from my eye, I glance down at the LCD screen and view the image. The lighting is sufficient, as is the image. Hopefully, we get all the shots in before the lighting from the windows shifts and adds unnecessary shadows. Not like I can’t Photoshop them out, but the less I have to adjust, the better.

As I shoot a few more test shots, the door to the banquet room opens. I continue taking a few more test shots, not looking to see the model or his agent as they shuffle into the room. I don’t know much about the shoot. Just that it’s a male model and he is an up-and-comer in the fashion industry.

Snap. Shot of the framed art on the wall.

I make a couple adjustments and take the same shot again. Perfect.

Setting the camera down on the table loaded with my equipment, I school my expression and put on my professional face. Just as I prepare to turn and meet my clients, a familiar voice echoes in my ears and I freeze.

A voice I haven’t heard since I was sixteen-years-old.

A voice that hasn’t changed in the thirteen years since I last heard it.

A voice that tortured me in my dreams for almost a decade.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turn with a huge smile plastered across my face and greet my newest client. Should I act as if I remember him? Or not? I am baffled as to how I should respond. I haven’t dealt with a similar situation yet.

I extend my hand to the agent first, seeing as she is the reason I work with her client in the first place. “Cora Davies. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” My smile as tight as a fresh facelift.

“Alyson Jameson.” Her overly manicured hand slides into mine, shaking it with no strength. “This is my client, Gavin Hunt.”

When Alyson drops her hand from mine, I focus my attention on Gavin, offering my hand. His dark brows pinch together for half a second. Most people wouldn’t catch the twitch, but I do. Not only because I am a photographer and part of my job depends on seeing beyond the superficial. But also, because I know Gavin. Intimately. And this shoot just became awkward with a capital A.

He shakes my hand, the rough contours of his skin tingle against my smooth palm. I study him a moment, our hands still connected. Not much has changed since I last saw him. Same height. Same brown-black hair, the style new—buzzed short from the base of his skull to a couple inches above his ear, the remaining hair seven or so inches long and swept to his right. His body, though… time and hard work show as evidence in the taut fabric pressed against his muscular frame. His shoulders seem broader than I remember. And his throat… I swallow just looking at it.

It is difficult to not speak with him like I knew him for years, but I do my best to maintain my businesslike persona. To present myself as the photographer the magazine chose. This is a job. Nothing more.

“Gavin, it’s great to see you again. It has been far too long.”

Too long didn’t even begin to cover it. But no one else in the room needs to know the meaning behind my words. Or the hurt that pairs with them. I pray I have mastered my poker face by now. Because inside, I am seething. And weeping.

All of a sudden, a million questions run a marathon in my head. Except this marathon isn’t on city streets, but on an old-school track. Circle after circle after circle. It makes me dizzy and breathless. My heart thumps erratically and beats against my ribcage harder than necessary. Of all the people I would be okay with not seeing again, Gavin ranked in the top three.

“Cora…” he drawls. My name, four simple letters, spills off his