Shiver (9 page)

"I can do that."

"When is grandpa and grandma Opal coming back from their honeymoon?" Max walks into the room. "I need to talk to grandpa about my science project."

"Next week." I hand him an apple from the bowl on the table. "I can help with your science project."

"Sorry, Daddy." He pats my shoulder. "This is a grandpa thing. He gets it."

"What does he get?" I ask quickly.

"That's why Max needs grandpa to help him, Noah." Chloe giggles. "If you have to ask about getting it, you're not getting it."

I rub my hands over my face. "Where's mom?"

"She's in the bedroom." Max sits next to me. "Or she might be in your office. She said she had some work to do before you got home."

My beautiful wife is still as devoted to her students as ever. She's trained herself to be on a better schedule though. As soon as she's home from school, she's in the office, grading the work that needs her attention. She's found her balance.

"I'm going to go find her."

"Noah means he's going to go kiss her." Chloe taps the pencil against Max's arm. "We need to stay in here. He's going to tell us that."

"You need to drop the Noah thing, princess." I swipe my fingers through her hair softly. "No calling me that until you actually work with me when you're a grown-up, deal?"

Her lips twist into a wide grin. "That's a deal, Daddy. I am going to be a photographer. I want to work with you. I want to be like you."

"I'm going to be a teacher," Max offers as he takes a bite of a pear. "I'll work with mommy. I'll be the principal at her school."

I laugh as I kiss his forehead before I leave the kitchen in search of Alexa.

***

I
t's one of the first times since we've been together that she doesn't instantly turn as soon as I walk into the office.

I expect to see her at the desk, the red pen in her hand furiously jotting notes on the papers. That's not what I find. She's on her feet, moving quickly from one side of the room to the other as she rearranges a set of framed photographs on a series of nails we've hung in the wall.

"Maybe this one isn't right," she mumbles under her breath. "Noah would like that one better. I do too. It's definitely much better."

She steps back as her hands dart to her hips. Her head tilts to the left. She's restless. She doesn't stand in place for long before she's moving images around again.

"You're choosing what we're going to show here, in New York, at the end of the year?"

My voice startles her. The muted curse words that fall from her lips are evidence of that.

"You scared me shitless, Noah." She turns on her heel. "When did you get home?"

I walk to where she's standing so I can pull her into my arms. I made love to her this morning when we woke, but I've been aching to touch her since then. That's because her scent has been on my face, on my hands and on my body all day.

"I just got here." I kiss her softly. "I've missed you like crazy today."

"You say that every single day."

"It's because I miss you every single day, Alexa."

She circles my waist with her arms, resting her cheek against my chest. "I'm so proud of this exhibit, Noah. You're going to win another award when this opens. I know you are."

She led the standing ovation when I was given an award two months ago from one of the most prestigious photography councils in the country for my work on the Boston exhibit. It was a stellar moment in my career. I was recognized for the series of photographs I'd shown of the people who were living at the shelter. Since then, we've raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to help them.

Venturing out into the streets of New York to capture the folks living with a struggle here, was the next obvious step. It was all because of Alexa. She spearheaded the campaign. She contacted the gallery that we'll be exhibiting in and she's been beside me every weekend when we've gone out to speak with people and take their photographs.

Her passion for this surpasses mine at times. It's become as important to her as it is to me. I still go out and take family portraits, and do professional head shots. My wife teaches her students with the same commitment to learning as she always has but there's more to our experience together now.

This project is our legacy. It's something we are using to teach our children about the value of every person's experience.

"You're doing a great job, Alexa." I gesture towards the row of photographs she's hung on the wall. "You picked the ones I would have chosen."

"Really?" she asks. "You're serious, Noah? You would have picked the same ones?"

"Absolutely," I say with no reservation at all. "Your eye is fucking amazing. You see what I see in these pictures. I know you do."

She nods as she rests her head against me. "I see hope. Every one of these pictures says hope to me. Hope that things will change. Hope that the future will be different."

I once thought our future might be different. Alexa's desire to have a baby quieted when she started helping me more. A few weeks ago we sat down and had a brutally honest conversation about our family.

That void within her is gone now. She loves our family exactly as we are, just as I do.

Our lives are full. We have our children, our work, this project and most importantly, my wife and I have each other, today, tomorrow and always.

T
hank you for purchasing and downloading my book. I can’t even begin to put to words what it means to me. If you enjoyed it, please remember to write a review for it. Let me know your thoughts! I want to keep my readers happy.

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––––––––

F
eaturing Asher Foster

"Are they low enough?"

"Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I need them higher."

He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He had done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a toned chest and stomach covered by the expected tattoos.

I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.

I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.

It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.

Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.

I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."

My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She pulls it over just a touch. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people, all part of the entourage that arrived with the Asher.

I take another glance. It's almost perfect save for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.

I step around the tripod and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.

I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."

He looks down. "I thought you wanted me almost naked."

He's taller than I am, but only by an inch or two. It helps that I'm wearing boots with heels today. I wouldn't have chosen this short of a skirt if I'd have known that he'd be here. I try my best to always look professional but when it's over 100 degrees outside, you have to make concessions. I'm thankful I at least took the time this morning to wash and sweep my curly brown hair up so it looks controllable.

I've already established myself as the go-to photographer for celebrities in New York City. Granted, it only constitutes part of my business, but it's the most lucrative part. I'm making enough off this shoot today to pay my rent for both the studio and my apartment for the next two months.

"It was my understanding that the photograph needed to be tasteful."

"You don't think this is tasteful." There's a low growl to his voice. "Tell me what's not tasteful about it."

The room may be milling with people, but his focus is entirely on me. I've felt that since he walked in. I imagine he's used to women taking him up on everything he offers to them. There's no denying it's tempting. I only need to look down at the top of his cock visible through the opening of his jeans to know that the man is very comfortable with his body.

"I'd prefer if you buttoned your jeans up."

"Why?" His eyes darken. "Tell me what you don't like about the way I look."

There's no way in hell this man needs his ego stroked. If that's what fuels his fire he need only turn around to where every single woman in the room, including Remy, is standing with their lips at the ready.

I've always been mildly curious about why so many women are drawn towards musicians. I don't have to wonder anymore. His confidence is undeniable but it hasn’t crossed the line to cocky yet. He's just the right balance of rawness mixed with blatant aggression.

"I think I look good." He playfully nods towards his groin. "You think I look good too, don't you, Falon?"

I look around the room before I rest my hand against his shoulder and lean in just a touch. "As impressive as your dick is, I don't want it in my pictures."

Coming 2016

––––––––

"D
o you like it? Some people have said it's too long. It's actually quite thick when you're holding it in your hands, isn't it?" The tone is low and throaty, emanating somewhere from my right.

Such is the conversation on subway trains in New York City. You'd think I'd be oblivious to it all by now. Most of those who have lived here for decades have an innate ability to silence the staccato sounds of voices, traffic, and the underlying hum that is constantly hanging in the air in Manhattan.

For those of us who are considered fresh transplants, the timbres of the city are still part of its irrefutable charm. I never thought I'd get accustomed to the constant buzz of the traffic when I closed my eyes to sleep each night but now it's the lull that helps me drift off. I've only been here two years but I know that I'd long for the frenzied energy of this place if I ever decided to move back home to Florida.

"I'd like your honest opinion." I feel the slight pressure of a strong shoulder rub against mine. "Chapter seven is my personal favorite. Have you gotten that far yet?"

I glance down at the thick book resting on my lap. I know, without a doubt now, that he's talking to me. I've already had two, one-sided, conversations today about the book. One was with a woman waiting in line at the dry cleaners. The other was just fifteen minutes ago with the man who runs the bodega by my office. In both cases, I just smiled, nodded and listened to them rattle on about the awe inspiring detective novel I'm lugging around Manhattan with me.

"I haven't," I say quietly without looking at him.

No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I'm not a rude person but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up easily if you pretend they don't exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.

"Have far are you?" A large hand brushes against my skirt. "You at least got past the first chapter, right?"

Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain even a few more inches in distance from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day and the other is the route.

It's early evening and I'm headed for Times Square, one of the few places in the city I'd be happy never seeing again. It's too much for me. There are too many people, too much noise, the smells overwhelming and the energy frenetic.

"I'm not trying to accost you." He laughs. It's a sexy growl and a few women actually turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he's not hard on the eyes.

"I'm just trying to get to a book signing," I confess, hoping he'll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I'm not looking to hook up. "I need to get this signed for my boss. It's a gift from his wife."

"You're hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing was around the block already. People have been waiting all afternoon to meet him."

"Shit." I finally turn to look at his face. "You're not serious, are you?"

He's as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. Like seriously, I will give this man my number if he asks me for it, hot.

Black hair, blue eyes, and just the right amount of stubble on his face are the appetizer. His perfect teeth, the rugged jaw and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course.  He's wearing a wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be so delicious.

"I'm serious," he says. "If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you'll get that book signed for your boss."

I roll my eyes. "I don't get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it so I read the first chapter and..." I point my thumb towards the floor.

"Thumbs down?" He cocks a dark winged brow. "You didn't like it?"