Page 3 of Jace
Vivian grins, jostling the camera bag on her shoulder. “Sounds like there’ll be some lucky ladies tonight.”
Damn, she thinks it won’t be her getting lucky or loved, and it tightens my throat, wanting to confess…
I love you every day.
“Speaking of lucky…” Instead, I rise, doing a covert pull ’n’ tuck on my dress pants to hide the constant stiffie I have for her. “Got something for you.”
Boy, do I ever.
She beams. “Jace, you didn’t have to?—”
But I cut her off, gesturing for her to enter, then, like a dumbass, I realize she doesn’t know where to go.
“Uh, hang on,” I mutter, scooting past her in the grand foyer of the house.
For most, there’s plenty of room. But beside me? With my hidden hard-on and huffing, wide chest, I brush by her warm body and get a jolt in my lightning rod.
“Ugh,” I grunt softly. “This way.”
On our left used to be the formal parlor. Now it’s box seats for Vale and Nash, watching this tender game I play of losing my mind for a miserably married woman.
In front of us rises the grand staircase, its balusters and handrails painted caviar black. It leads to Vivian’s studio on the second floor.
But to our right is the hallway to the former dining room, now a remodeled kitchen for events and staff. It gleams in black and ivory like the rest of the shop.
Silently, Vivian follows me down the corridor to the historic kitchen built in the back, separated from the house due to fire hazards back in the day.
But for years, Vale’s been using it to store extra sex toys until Stacey, Delta’s owner, also bought the house next door for offices, storage, and other business ventures.
Leaving this space unclaimed until two months ago, when I couldn’t give Vivian a holiday gift, but I had to do something with my aching heart for her.
Swinging the black door open, I murmur, “I, uh… made this for us.”
Us.
Me and Vivian and our love for analog photography. Nothing digital. It’s the old school origin of the art.
“Oh my god, Jace!” Her trembling hand goes to her lips, her puffy eyes widening. “Is it a?—”
“Our darkroom, yeah.”
I try to breathe through our closeness. How she’s standing inches and a million, married miles from me. I may have dark desires for her, but my heart is painfully ethical. I’d never cheat or be a part of it. Neither would Vivian. Add it to the list of excruciating reasons that I love her.
I clear my throat. “It’s uh, almost done. I’m just waiting on the enlarger. But I repurposed the sink and put in red lights and used the old kitchen counters for our wet side and dry side and?—”
The joy on Vivian’s glowing face silences me. Yeah, I was mansplaining because she knows what I mean about the intricate chemical process of developing film. She’s taught me everything I know.
Even how to love her so much it hurts.
She’s been using the bathroom on the second floor, waiting until customers and staff leave, then struggling in the small space to develop her film. And I’d happily wait by the front door until I could safely escort her home.
With tentative steps, she enters the repurposed space, marveling at the supplies I’ve amassed.
We share a lost art. It’s not been easy finding these items, she knows, lingering her fingertips over boxes of printing paper, trays, bottles, and supplies.
She turns around, teary-eyed and shaking her head. “I can’t believe you did all this, Jace. Thank you. I… I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll use it.” I step closer. “Say you’ll enter the Nikon contest this year.”
