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“I love the creative aspect,” I tell him, raising my head from his shoulder and then taking a quick sip. I look out ahead of me in thought, the moving figures of a few people walking back and forth blurring out of focus. “But you know … this is different somehow. I mean it … well, this is enjoyable. That wedding I did, not so much.”
Luke is smiling. I know without having to look over at him.
He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a small drink, then props his arm on the top of his knee, letting the bottle dangle between his bent legs.
“Maybe it’s because I’m appreciative of you,” he begins. “And, I dunno,” he says with a perceptive tenor, looking over and catching my gaze, “maybe it’s because you feel like you’re getting something more out of it than a paycheck.”
I nod softly with an appreciative smile. “Maybe you’re right.”
Luke sets the soda bottle on the floor on the other side of him and then wraps his arm around my bent leg. I set my bottle down, too, and rest a hand on his wrist. We look out at the room together.
“Too bad Harrington Planners doesn’t take on more jobs like these,” I say. “I can’t recall one event I’ve ever been a part of that didn’t involve some kind of negativity. I’ve worked with a lot of really nice people—most of them aren’t like the Dennings family—but there was always some kind of drama.” I shake my head just thinking about it all.
“But a job is a job,” I say.
Luke shrugs. “Sometimes it is.” He turns his body at an angle so he can focus on me better; he’s got that look in his eyes, the one he always gets when he’s about to tell me something profound yet so simple that I can’t for the life of me understand why I didn’t already know it. “But if you’re unhappy with your job, you have two choices: Find a way to be happy, or find one that makes you happy.” He looks out at the room again. “But never let yourself become a slave to it.”
I sense there’s more meaning behind his comment than what is obvious—having to do with his brother, I’m sure—but he shifts the mood too quickly for me to explore it.
Raising his back from the wall, he looks right at me with the brightest smile and says with absolute determination, “You know what? I think you should display some of your photography in the event.”
A little surprised by his suggestion, I just sit here wide-eyed for a moment.
“You don’t have to sell any of it if you don’t want to,” he says, assuring me. “But even if you did, you could keep your profits—however you want to do it—but I just think it’d be awesome if your photography was on display like my paintings.”
I was shaking my head long before I realized I was; I just don’t feel very confident. The other photographs, not to mention Luke’s paintings, are way out of my league.
“I don’t know, Luke,” I say, still shaking my head slightly. “Did you see those other photographs over there?” I point absently in the direction of the black-and-white photographs of the old woman. “My stuff is nowhere near—”
“Your photography is fantastic, Sienna,” he cuts in and then says, “Hey, I’m up close and personal with those self-doubting demons—as artists we’re our own worst critics—but I’m telling you that your photography is some of the best I’ve ever seen around this place, and I’m not just saying that because I like you.”
My whole face is bright and warm.
“I don’t know …”
“Just think about it,” he says eagerly.
He stands up and reaches out for my hands, helping me to my feet.
“Maybe you could even … come back for the event,” he suggests in a gentle, smiling voice.
“Oh, is that why you offered?” I ask, grinning; he rubs my arms up and down underneath his warm hands. “Just to get me to come back here?”
He shrugs, his mouth lifting on one side.
“As much as I’d love for you to come back in August,” he admits, “I still think your photography is worthy of being on display—don’t tell me you have a fear of compliments, too.”
I laugh lightly.
He just smiles.
“No, I’m not afraid of compliments—I like them more than I’m willing to admit.” I glance downward, feeling weird about saying that out loud, trying to keep my smile to a minimum.
“Well, that’s a good thing,” he says, and I feel his fingers press gently around my biceps, “because that’s just not something I can go easy on you about.” He leans in and presses his lips against my forehead, and my heart leaps and does flips and I feel like I want to fall into his arms.
Luke pulls away slowly, letting his hands slide away from my arms with reluctance.
“But as far as that real fear of yours,” he says, “I’ve got plans for it.”
