“Candace here?” I ask.

“Mmm hmm,” she playfully hums as she turns away from me and walks into the back.

She pops back out after a couple minutes and says, “She said to give her ten minutes and she’ll be out.”

I nod my head and scan the tats on her arm, asking, “Who does your work?”

“Place next door. My boyfriend works over there.”

“That’s convenient,” I tease.

“My thoughts exactly,” she says with a hint of indecency, and I have to laugh at her vibrant personality. “You got any?”

“Yeah,” I say as I lift the sleeve of my t-shirt to show her the half-sleeve I got a few years back. My mother’s favorite flower is the peony, so I have an almost cryptic interpretation of one surrounded by shaded water with the words, ‘Struggles are not identities,’ woven through the art.

“Nice,” she says as she moves her eyes over it, noting the details. “Any others?”

“No,” I lie. I have another, but I keep it private and don’t ever mention it to people if they ask. “How long did it take you to get all those?” I ask about the full colorful sleeves that run down the length of her arms.

“Here and there for a few years,” she says when I notice Candace out of the corner of my eye.

“Hey.”

“What are you guys talking about?” she asks as she walks over to me.

“Your friend, Ryan, was asking about my tattoos,” Roxy tells her.

Walking towards Candace, who is already in her running gear, I ask, “You ready?”

“Yeah, I just need to put my bag in my car.”

I take the bag out of her hand, and she turns to Roxy to say bye as I start heading out.

Candace is quiet while she listens to me talk about work. She asks a few questions along the way, and I end up venting about some of my aggravation with a couple of the staff that I had to get rid of the other night. But when the conversation shifts to Mark and his band, we start talking about music. When I ask her what some of her favorite bands are, I’m surprised to hear that they sync right up with mine.

We eventually weave into my neighborhood, which is only a couple blocks from her house. We both live right outside Fremont, which Jase’s apartment is in the heart of. Candace stops talking for a while, and when I look down at her, I can see she’s struggling a bit with her breathing.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I’m thirsty. We forgot water.”

“No worries,” I tell her, knowing that my loft is at the end of the street we’re on. When we get close, I slow down and start walking up my drive.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and when I look back, she’s standing in the middle of my drive—anxious.

“Getting you some water. Come on,” I say, trying to act like her being here shouldn’t be a big deal, but by the way she’s hesitantly walking towards me, I can tell that it is for her.

Pulling out my keys, I click the fob and open the garage.

“Do you own this building or something?” she asks, not registering that this is my place, and I guess I can’t blame her because it’s a three-story loft—much bigger than one person should need.

“This is my loft. I live here,” I say with a grin.

“Oh,” she breathes and then stops in her tracks, no longer following me. She doesn’t want to be here, but I want her here. She shifts uncomfortably before walking into my garage and following me up the stairs to the door.

When we walk inside, she stays in the living room while I head straight to the kitchen to grab a couple bottles of water.

“Here you go,” I say as I walk back to her and hand her one.

She takes a big gulp before saying, “This is a great place. How long have you lived here?”

“About five years.” I watch as she moves her eyes around my space, taking it in.

My phone begins to ring, and when I see it’s Max, I answer.

“Hey.”

“Ryan, Michael’s a no-show. Said he has shit going on at home.”

“Hold on a sec,” I tell him and look over to Candace. “Make yourself comfortable. I need to take this call really quick. I’ll only be a few minutes, okay?”

She smiles at me, and I head back to my office, closing the door behind me.

“Okay, I’m back,” I tell him.

“Where are you at?”

“My place. Why?”

“Who are you telling to get comfortable?” he inquires, implying I’m trying to get laid.

“Candace,” I tell him honestly.

“Who?”

“That girl I told you about,” I explain.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks, knowing damn well that I don’t ever hang out with girls and that I have never even been interested in anything more than a passing screw.

“Nothing,” I shrug off, not wanting to leave her in the other room alone for too long. “I’ll be there in a few hours, okay?”

“Sounds good,” he says before hanging up.

Walking back out into the living room, I find Candace kneeling down, looking at some of my mattes that are stacked against the wall. Stepping next to her, she looks up at me.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she puts the mattes down and stands up.

“For what?”

“I wasn’t snooping or anything, I just noticed these and was curious,” she nervously explains.

“Candace, I have nothing to hide. I told you to make yourself comfortable, and I meant it.” I take a seat in one of the overstuffed leather chairs and drink my water.

“Where did you get those?”

“They’re mine,” I tell her.

“Yours?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I get bored and like to mess around with my camera.”

“That’s pretty amazing for just messing around,” she says as she continues to stand against the large panoramic window. “You only shoot people?”

“For the most part, yeah.” I get up and walk over to the photos and pick up the one lying on the top. It’s the shot I took of Gina. It’s a nice photo, but makes me almost feel guilty for having it. For spending so much time working on it, only to have Candace admire it.

“She a model?” she asks as she looks at the photo with me.

“No, just some chick I used to know.” I toss the matte down and motion for her to sit with me on the couch, and when she does, she continues, “So, when did you get into photography?”

“When I was in college I took some art classes. So, one day I just decided to buy a camera and started taking pictures. Like I said, I pretty much have no clue what I’m doing. Just a little hobby of mine I mess around with every now and then.”

“You ever do anything with them?” she asks.

“No.”

I watch her as she begins to relax, getting more comfortable the longer she’s here. Having her here in my space—I like it.

“Maybe you should,” she encourages, and when I look into her eyes, I’m at a loss for words, so I simply repeat hers, “Maybe I should.”

We sit here for a few moments without speaking. I don’t pull my eyes away from hers, and when I see the nervous shift in her, I cut the intensity and ask, “You sure you don’t want to come out to the bar tonight to see Mark play?”

Taking a deep breath and looking down, she says, “I told you, I have to work.”

“I just picked you up from work.”

“I know, but I have to go back. One of the girls quit and Roxy hasn’t hired anyone to replace her, so I’ve been picking up extra shifts,” she explains. “Plus, I’d probably be tired and no fun to be around.”

“I can’t imagine it not being fun to be around you,” I admit much too honestly, and when she shifts her eyes to look out the window, I take her cue and ask, “You ready to finish the run?”

Standing up, I reach out for her hand. She doesn’t take it at first, but when I smile down at her, she slips her hand into mine. I keep a strong hold on it as I lock up and we head out.

When we get outside and to the end of my driveway, I still have her hand. This is the longest she’s ever let me touch her.

“Wanna make it a long run, or are you ready to head back?” I ask.

She takes a moment, and then looks up at me, saying, “Long.”