“So,” he says once we’ve been walking a minute or so. “What is your daily routine?”
“Is this like an easier option than stalking me?” I joke. “Wade Mason—architect and lazy stalker.”
He shakes his head. “I’m trying to get a feel as to how you use the space you’re in. Where do you have your coffee?”
“Who says I drink coffee?”
“See?” He motions with his hands. “Do you work at home? What time do you go to bed? What time do you get up? Do you like to watch the sun set with a glass of wine in the evenings? Are you a light sleeper? Things like that are important to me.”
I clutch my chest. “How sweet.”
He rolls his eyes, making me laugh.
“I get up around eight,” I say, gasping at the offended look on his face. “What?”
“Eight in the morning?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So that’s … I have half a day of work in by that point.”
“Good for you. I bet I’m still enjoying my night when you go to bed.”
He grins. It’s slight and doesn’t last long, but I see it and it sends a blast of heat up my spine.
“Continue,” he says, shaking his head.
I clear my throat and try to rid myself of the image of his smile.
“Up at eight,” I say, looking at him over my shoulder. “I do like a coffee in the morning. I sit at the kitchen table because the sun comes in the windows and I like the feel of it while I wake up.”
“Good. Keep going.”
“Then I get a shower, grab something to eat, and then I go to my desk. My day then is either editing pictures, scoping out new locations, putting together marketing packets, scheduling appointments, meeting clients, taking photos—things like that. It depends on the day.” I shrug. “I’ll get lunch somewhere in there and usually wrap it up by six or seven. Dinner is in the living room with Netflix or with Rusti at a restaurant somewhere. I’m in bed by midnight or one o’clock.”
He nods. “Do you like a lot of sunlight in your house?”
I consider his question as we approach the end of the forested area. In front of us is a deep blue lake with tall grass wrapping around the edge.
It’s like the water comes out of nowhere—like it’s another cocoon attached to the forest. It’s magical in its own right.
A breeze ripples across the water, bringing the humid, salty air of Savannah swirling around us. With the rays of sunlight sparkling across the lake, everything that I was just describing about my normal day feels eons away.
My fingers twitch to click grab my camera and capture some of the magic sparkling around us. I mentally frame the bird scooping into the water, droplets falling off his feathers. I can see the frame of a boat in the distance through the lens of my camera. The tree that’s laying on the water’s edge would be amazing if photographed right at dusk.
I close my eyes and breathe in the air, filling my lungs with oxygen. The warmth on my face, the movement of the air takes my worries and, for the time being, tosses them away.
“This is where it needs to be.” Wade’s voice is quiet, bordering on soft. “This is it.”
My eyes pop open. “This is what?”
“This is where you need to be. The way you …” He steps back and takes me in again. “You came alive when you saw the water. It’s like when my mother sees someone wearing a piece from her jewelry line or Rosie sees Fluffy.”
I laugh. “I have questions.”
“My niece and her dog. Not the point.” He yawns. “I was just making a comparison.”
“Hey, speaking of nieces and puppies—did your brother have his baby?”
He shakes his head and yawns again. “I think that’s happening today.”
“I think you need another cup of coffee.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Have you seen enough?” I ask, grinning. “We could swing by the donut shop on the way back to your office and get a coffee and a treat.”
“A treat?” He looks mildly amused. “That sounds interesting.”
I grin. “It sounds delightful and I can promise you that it won’t entail sweet potatoes.”
He laughs. The sound stops me in my tracks. I think it stops him, too, because his eyes widen and the sound I was reveling in stops.
“Yes. I think I’ve seen enough,” he says, running a hand down his jaw and looking out across the water—pointedly not at me. “This gives me a lot to think about.”
We head back toward the tree line, walking side by side. But even though we’re close to one another, it might as well be a mile.
He doesn’t say another word until we’re at my car. It’s not that I expected him to suddenly become Mr. McChatty, as that is not who Wade Mason is. That much I know for a fact. But he’s so hard to read.