Stone In Love

Chapter 3

Despite the usual chaos, I felt like something wasn't quite right, like I was being singled out from the mayhem and lined up in the sight of a sniper's gun. The thought had me distracted, and I narrowly missed getting tackled by a kid running with his dog.

"I'm trying a new recipe this year, something with vanilla and cardamom," Mom said, reminding me we were talking about squash soup. I 'hmmed' my agreement, waiting for her to bring up the subject that never failed to seep into our conversations. "So, what's new with you besides your assignment today?" Wait for it... "Are you seeing anyone? Someone you might want to bring to Thanksgiving dinner?"

I held the phone out as I released an exasperated sigh. She was so predictable. "No, Mom. Geez."

"I'm not trying to pry, honey. It's just something a mother thinks about, that's all. You're nearly twenty-six. You're intelligent, beautiful, and you have a sweet manner."

Okay. Now she was reaching. I had never been sweet and she knew it. "I just haven't found someone I click with yet. And when I do, you and Dad will be the first people I call."

"I know, and I'm grateful you still want to share your life with us. So many families grow apart when the kids move away. It's such a shame." She sniffled, and I prepared for the other inevitable topic to surface. "It will be two years this November since we lost your brother, and I still miss Theo every day."

Crap. Even when I braced for it, the feeling always hit me like a gunshot to the chest, and my brain automatically replayed the ER doctor's timid voice telling us Theo was already gone by the time we got there. My forward progress was stopped at an intersection, and I glanced at the subway entrance across the street, assessing the crowd.

"I hate to cut our convo short, Mom, but I'm almost at my subway station. I love you. Tell Dad I love him too."

"I love you, Reese. Call any time you want to talk. You don't have to wait until Saturday."

We said our goodbyes, and I secured my phone in my camera bag as I mingled with the bodies of weekend sightseers entering the subway stairwell. I felt a bit like a tourist myself. Eighteen months wasn't nearly enough time to claim residency, but I had already become skilled at picking out the non-residents. They usually traveled in family packs, expensive cameras swinging from their necks, a city map unfolded in front of them, staggering like drunks at a carnival. Growing up in DC, I'd seen my share of tourists.

I managed to claim an open seat next to a normal looking woman reading a weathered copy of a historical novel, and I glanced at the cover nonchalantly as I settled in. She offered me a sidelong look, taking in my attire and camera bag while I sat there acting harmless. Apparently satisfied that I wasn't a threat, she returned to her book and I pulled out my phone to veg on Pinterest. But the strange feeling that I was being spied on had taken root inside my chest. 

Of course, I immediately thought of the French crazy I'd run into yesterday, but this was different. The presence had a smell, a taste, an energy, and I casually scanned the faces of my neighbors, trying to pick out anyone who didn't fit. This was my route, but today I felt alone. Not even the usual crazies were here.

Clutching my belongings in my lap, I reminded myself I wasn't going to get jumped on a packed subway car on a Saturday morning. I also had a decent right hook, a skill I'd learned when my parents forced me to take self-defense classes after my boobs grew in and the lawn guy asked me out. My fighting skills were further sharpened when I dated Heath, the asshole who ruined me for men.

By the time I left the subway, the strange vibe had subsided, and I enjoyed a half hour grace period before my assignment, slipping into a coffee shop for a mochaccino. With power bar in hand, I adopted a leisurely stroll as I munched on my breakfast and took in the sights of midtown Manhattan. 

Sandwiched between two skyscrapers, Saint Thomas Church struggled to stand out as a grandiose monument among the modern structures. According to my brief internet research, it suffered a devastating fire at the beginning of the nineteenth century and was rebuilt in the French high gothic style. Whatever the influence, the church was breathtaking, and after ditching the remnants of my breakfast in the trash, I popped off a few shots, imagining what the building might have looked like without the imposing shadows currently eclipsing it.

"It's an awesome piece of architecture, isn't it?" His voice enveloped me like a blanket of clingy silk, and I turned to face Vincent Valentino, an architectural wonder in his own right. He came to stand over me like the statue of David dressed in a suit and tie, his impenetrable features mimicking the pale marble Michelangelo used to create his masterpiece. I was tempted to direct my camera lens at him and capture the moment, using the blend of spontaneity and late morning sunlight, but I was dumbfounded by his raw beauty and smoky eyes.

"Yes...very beautiful," I managed to choke out. "I'm looking forward to photographing it."

He captured me in his granite gaze, his head tilting slightly as his mouth parted, and I willed him to speak in that smooth, beckoning tone again. Instead, he appeared to lose his train of thought, looking disoriented. He wasn't the only one. I was embarrassing the hell out of myself as I waited for those chiseled lips to move. They looked extremely kissable. It had been a long time since I'd let a man kiss me, like really kiss me, and fuck buddies didn't count. Did Vincent have something else to say? What was he waiting for?

Finally... "I regret your first impression of me happened under awkward circumstances, Reese." The way he uttered my name, all throaty and sensual, had my thighs clenching. Damn, this guy was sex on two legs.

"First impressions can be deceiving. I, um, didn't get a chance to thank you for paying my cab fare. And I didn't need both twenties. I've got the other one in my purse."

My voice came out all breathy, completely inappropriate to the situation, and I cursed inwardly as I dug for my wallet. Vincent Valentino was just a man, and he probably knew exactly what he was doing. The rogue.

Vincent reached out and touched my sleeve, applying just enough pressure to elicit a chill, and time stopped as I reveled in the intimate contact. If I didn't know better, I would say he was experiencing the same effect as his jaw tensed and his gaze darted to my lips. "I don't need it back. I'm sure you can put it to good use, like feeding that caffeine habit."

So, he saw me drop my coffee cup in the trash can, huh? How long had he been watching before he approached me? "Don't judge. It's my only vice." Apart from a minor sex addiction, but we needn't bring up that trifle failing.

"Vincent! Vincent Valentino!" The high vibrato came from a curly haired, dark skinned woman dressed in a navy pant suit and red heels. A lanyard hung from her neck, announcing she was The Press based on the laminated card swinging from it. "I'm Sheila Waterson. I've been assigned to interview you after the dedication."

She jabbed her hand at Vincent as she gawked blatantly, and he returned her enthusiastic greeting with refined politeness. I took the opportunity to dig my lanyard out of my camera bag, which announced that I was Reese Kentwell, Freelance Photographer. When Sheila finally noticed me and my laminated label, she offered her hand to me as well. 

"You're Reese Kentwell, right? Cassie Bennet told me you'd be taking her place as photographer. We're doing the interview in the parishioners meeting room. My editor wants studio shots of Vincent inside the church, but feel free to take liberties in order to get what you need for the article."

After she was done with me, Sheila directed her focus back to Vincent, but she just stared mutely, and I knew she was being sucked into his sensual vortex.

"I better get inside," Vincent said as he glanced at his watch. "My publicist will be waiting to remind me how much she despises tardiness. I will see you ladies after the dedication."

As Vincent walked into the church, Sheila and I stared after him. "Holy cow, that guy has some serious magnetism," Sheila gushed as she straightened her vest and fondled the tight curls at her temples. "I hope I make it through the interview without breaking into a sweat."

She trundled after him as I arranged my camera bag over my shoulder. I had to agree with her on the magnetism. Vincent oozed masculinity from every pore, and I was grateful Sheila would be with me during the shoot. I didn't want to be the only one sweating.

PLAYLIST SONG: St. Peter's Cathedral by Death Cab for Cutie