Page 68 of Picture Perfect

I had never acknowledged the depth of my fantasies about Autumn. But when we had begun, immediately, I pictured her with me in my future. A true partner. A stepmom to my kids. Regularly, I thought of coming home to her and the kids after a long day at work, relaxing with my family.

That’s what Autumn is to me. Family. She always has been. The thing was, though, as regularly as I thought of all that, she is such a ubiquitous part of my life that I didn’t let myself connect the emotional part of things to the fantasy. I took it for granted that we were together and eventually, when I was finally comfortable enough, I’d say something about it and that would be that. It would be official, and that’s all I’d have to do.

One day. Down the road. When I felt brave enough to speak up. And because I didn’t get brave soon enough, the picture in my mind was in shards.

It feels wrong to grieve for what I didn’t technically have. I grieved the loss of Stacy, and that felt like what I was supposed to do. But this…this is different. How do I have a right to this grief when I didn’t even have Autumn?

Sadness floods through me. And guilt. All the shitty emotions come at me because I have no safeguards against them anymore. She was my safeguard, a way to ignore any negativity. When we had our thing, if I had a bad day, I could tell myself that the day won’t end badly, because I get to see Autumn. But I don’t have her anymore, and it all comes rushing in once again.

Real talk, Cargill. Do you pretend to move on, or do you fight for what’s yours?

She showed me I’m not some emotionless man, going through the motions of a life. She proved I could enjoy someone, and that I could even dare to have feelings for someone again. That being a widower doesn’t make me unlovable. That love is possible for me.

The thought of trying to love someone else feels like lying to myself again. I’m done with that. The lone person out there for me is Autumn Sherwood.

I need her. Only her. And I’m going to get her back.

24

Autumn

Skirting between a packed dancefloor of wedding goers, I do what I can to get pictures of the bride and groom without getting knocked into hard enough to drop my camera. Again. This beach wedding is less formal and more fun than most I attend, and the crowd lets loose around me. I lost track of Delia five minutes ago, which is not helping the situation. Another elbow to the ribs catches me off-guard, and my grip slips, but I catch my camera just in time.

Got to get off this floor, or my camera is going to be shot.

This wedding is at the Somerset Harbor Civic Center, across the harbor from the yacht club. The civic center is known for its affordable rates, small private beach, and not much else. But the Hansen and Bowles clans made it their own.

Pink and orange flowers in all directions give the illusion that the sun is setting all around us. The dresses, though not my taste, are all the same lovely floor length, spaghetti strap numbers, but in various shades of the theme colors. But for once, it’s the suits that take the prize.

I have never seen a bunch of more colorful men.

The suits are also in the pinks and oranges of the wedding, and to my surprise, it actually kinda works. In fact, I had overheard some groomsmen talking about how much better this is compared to all the damned black suits they have to wear for other weddings. The guys strut around like peacocks, dancing and laughing with everyone else.

The shindig is cool and as casual as anything ever is in Somerset, and all I can do is avoid everyone to save my camera.

Making my way to the sidelines, I find a quiet corner to recompose myself and take a breath. As much as I pride myself on getting the money shot for my clients, sometimes I have to weigh the cost of equipment against the cost of my reputation. As a business owner everything is about cost.

Everything is about cost as a woman, too.

How much will this situation cost me? Can I afford to waste my time with someone who doesn’t see what I’m worth? What does the cost-benefit analysis say about spending time with a man who still sees me as optional? How can I spend one more moment thinking about a man who left me behind?

It is a lot. But the highest cost I’ve paid so far is the time I burned on someone who doesn’t love me back. And it wasn’t Mark.

As much as he had hurt me, we didn’t have the history Rowan, and I had. It hurt differently. This thing between us had tinges of the fights I’d had with family. Because that’s how I have always seen Rowan. He’s my family.

Or, well, hewas.

After a hit on my water bottle, I jump back onto the dancefloor, where the bride and groom laugh and jump with their friends and family. Feels a little like what I imagine roller derby to be like, dodging elbows and knees left and right. Out here, I have the creeping sensation that something is wrong and I can’t shake it. Or that I forgot something.

Did I leave the oven on?

But then I glimpse Delia across the room, digging through one of our bags while some very sweaty drunk man tries to talk to her. Poor thing.

Clumsily, I make my way through the revelers, and get to her. “Sorry to interrupt,” I lie, “but Delia, I need you over here.”

“You got it, Boss,” she says with a nod. Then she looks at him. “Duty calls.”

“That booty calls—