His eyebrows lifted with amusement until he saw the picture. While the moment when I’d snapped it had been lighthearted as most everything with him was, the picture was not. In the photo, his face was caught in a look of conflicted contemplation. I shuddered at the memories that must be imprinted in his mind.

“I’m deleting it,” he huffed, and I heard beeps on the camera as he pushed buttons.

“No!” I reached a hand to stop him. He pulled away and a sardonic smile lit his face.

“I don’t take photos of myself. Let’s leave it at that.” The tone of his voice told me it wasn’t up for discussion.

“A photographer that doesn’t take photos of himself?”

“Leave it, Erin,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Let me take one of you then.”

“Nuh—uh.” I tucked a strand behind my ear and looked to the ceiling again.

“I’ve been dying to take a picture of you since we met. Let me,” he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion, though I couldn’t understand why.

I sighed and stood in place, crossing my arms awkwardly. “Okay.”

He circled me slowly, his eyes scanning my form, assessing the angles, the light, the composition, I assumed, until he finally stopped. I chewed on my bottom lip, begging him to take the God damn picture.

“Relax.” His soft voice filled the night air and whispered across my skin, loosening my arms, causing the nerves to hum and jump. I closed my eyes for a beat and breathed through my nose, relaxing my lips and allowing the breath to fall out just as a click filled the night air.

My eyes shot open, but the last thing he saw was me. His eyes were riveted to the camera, wide green orbs transfixed on whatever image he saw. “What?” I took the couple steps to him and bent my head to see the photo.

Somehow Hunter had captured what I was sure was my only good angle. I was sure I didn’t look like that, never had, it was simply the very best me I could be after a day of makeovers and glamour shots and heavy photoshopping. The light hit my angles in just the right way to add dimension, my eyelashes falling across the tops of my cheekbones and casting a gentle shadow. It was a breathtaking image, regardless of the subject.

“Wow,” I breathed when I could finally speak. “You’re amazing.”

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he murmured so quietly it was much more meant for himself.

“Anyone could be in that picture and it would be astounding,” I said with complete honesty.

“Hardly. And you don’t need a douchebag like me to give a gorgeous girl like you compliments, so don’t ask for them.”

“What? I—”

“This photo is stunning because you are in it. That background could be anywhere, a ranch in Texas, or the fucking moon, and it would be as stunning.”

“You’re insane.”

“Let me shoot you.” He cut me off and took another step closer. “I mean it.” Hunter pulled me into his arms. My breath heaved in the dark night, our chests touching, my hardened nipples brushing against his pectorals just enough to drive me mad. “I want to shoot you. You know that photo in my foyer?” I nodded in response, my eyes locked on his. “I want you there.”

My mouth fell open and images swam through my head of Hunter and sex and that fucking click I loved.

“Do you want to be there, Erin?” He pulled me to him, my chest still pressed against his, my nipples so fucking hard I was afraid he could feel them.

“Yes,” I said with all the confidence I could muster. He blinked, his mouth open, his fist flexing around my elbow before it slowly eased.

“That was easy,” he finally exhaled and placed a slow, delicate kiss across my lips. “I can’t wait to shoot you.” He nipped at the corner of my lip, his teeth dragging along the bottom and pumping blood between my legs.

“We should get back; we have to be up in a few hours for that flight,” he reminded, his palm now settled at the nape of my neck, holding me in place.

I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat and nodded as Hunter wrapped his fingers in my own and led me through the overgrown field and back to the sidewalk. The moon cast a haunting shadow of the old stone building behind us, and as sleep tore at my eyes, I almost fell in love.

nine

I sat camped outside the same red brick home I’d come to know all too well. He was my primary target, but she’d become tangled up in it, no matter how dishonest it felt watching an innocent woman every day. I grit my teeth together, half wanting to warn her, throw in the assignment and tell her to run from the man she thought she loved. But she’d made her bed, gone into a life with eyes wide shut, and now she was forced to handle the consequences.

I heaved a sigh, only watching her half-heartedly as she buzzed around the empty house. I still hadn’t laid eyes on him. For such a popular guy, he sure kept to himself.

As if he was laying low because he knew he had a trail. Of course he didn’t know — I was a pro, highly trained with a very specific skillset that allowed me to fly under the radar and observe every moment of any situation that most glossed over as unremarkable.

But still I was here, knowing he could show up at any second. I was convinced that she was in the dark on every vile thing he’d done, but I always wondered, if she knew, would she stay? The question rang between my ears like the incessant chop-chopping of a Blackhawk, haunting me long after it should be out of earshot.

Erin climbed the stairs to her bedroom after dark and tucked herself in bed with her phone, golden lamplight casting the only glow. I zoomed in on her screen, which from my position I had a remarkably good view of, and caught her looking at sexy black and white photos. It was only a minute before I noticed one hand snaking between the sheets and the soft cotton rising and falling between her thighs.

I watched with attention, feeling every part the stalker I’d become, when her eyes fell closed and lips parted on shaky breaths, I snapped away, hoping I’d never need to use these photos. Hoping they’d never see the light of day, wishing I could burn them along with all the other evidence that may implicate her.

ten

“Need you, car will be there in thirty,” Hunter grunted over the phone the following Tuesday morning as I stood in the bright sunlight of my kitchen. He hung up before I could even reply. I set my phone back on the counter. Within hours of landing in Chicago, he’d called to tell me there was a chance we’d be in LA before the week was out. I guess that was his confirmation.

I shot up the stairs, jumped in the shower, and then threw on a pair of shorts and a cotton shirt. I was just shoving my laptop in my bag when my phone rattled. My mother.

My loving, doting, suffocating mother.

“Where have you been?!” came her shrill voice when I answered. I held the phone from my ear and groaned. Maybe I should have just texted from the car.

“I’ve been calling all weekend! I drove by twice and no one was home.”

“I got a new job!” I said brightly, hoping to end her spiel in its tracks.

“Doing what?”

I began to tell her how I’d gotten a job and been whisked off to an exotic locale, excitement bubbling in my voice, before she cut me off and said she couldn’t believe I’d left town without telling her.

I groaned. My mother was a difficult person to say the least. At best, she was undiagnosed depressed, and at worst, I shuddered to think of the plethora of diagnoses a mental health professional would see fit to bestow. The best I could do was try to keep her at arm’s distance, which was difficult when she lived less than twenty minutes away and expected me to report in like an eight-year-old.