Shit. She hadn’t seen all the photos before, and I can only assume that she didn’t like what she saw. They’re mostly nudes, but she had to have known that by the few she had already seen.

I give her a few minutes, but when she doesn’t come back out, I give the door a light knock.

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously, even though I have a pretty solid idea as I step into the bathroom with her. When I take a step toward her, she takes a step back, keeping the distance, and the gesture irritates me. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She’s being evasive, and I wish she would just be honest with me.

I drop my head and let out a deep breath, trying to control my frustration with her.

“Is it the photos?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but I feel like I need to spell it out for her because I know how much she likes to avoid talking when she’s uncomfortable.

She doesn’t answer, but her brows are scrunched with worry, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

“Candace, you asked to see them. You knew what they would be of.”

“I know,” she admits as she lowers her head and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would all be like that.”

Leaning against the sink, I cross my arms around my chest. I hate that I feel like I have to explain myself when I’ve been nothing but open with her, but I do it anyway. “They’re just pictures, that’s all.”

She takes a seat on top of the toilet lid and says, “But . . . they just seem so intimate.”

“Babe, don’t.” I drop my arms, hating that she feels this way because she’s got it reversed. There was nothing intimate when I took those photos. I have no connection to them.

She looks up at me, and I see the hesitation in her eyes when she quietly asks, “Did you sleep with them?”

“Yes.” I respond immediately, not wanting to bullshit her. Wanting to be completely transparent with her the way I wish she would be with me.

“How many have you . . .?”

“A lot.”

“And you photograph them?” Her words are laced with disbelief, and she’s got it all wrong, so I try to explain it to her.

“No. I’ve only photographed a couple of women. Most of those photos are the same person.”

“Oh.” Dropping her head, she tries hiding her insecurities that I can see right through. She’s so opposite of what I know she is comparing herself to. She’s modest and private. It’s been three weeks since Christmas and she’s never let me touch her, see her, anything.

Kneeling down in front of her, I grip her thighs and speak firmly when I say, “I know what you’re doing, and you can stop. None of them meant what you mean to me. I never had or wanted a relationship with them.”

“Then why?” she tries to argue, and I can’t stand seeing her doubt herself, doubt me.

I take her hands in mine, holding them, when I look into her eyes and give her another piece of me that only she gets to have. “Because for most of my life I’ve been lost,” I confess. “I dealt with a lot of shit growing up, and I used women as a way to escape. But when I met you . . . you’re just different. I wanted to know you, really know you. You’re nothing like those women. Nothing. I’ve never looked at them or wanted them the way I do you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, unsure of herself, but I feel the same way, so I tell her.

“I don’t either.”

“I mean . . . I haven’t . . .”

“Been with anyone?” I ask, my words slipping out, wondering if that’s why she’s moving so slowly with me.

I know I’ve embarrassed her when she covers her face and doesn’t say anything, but I’m not appeasing her this time by letting her avoid me. I need her to start talking and stop being afraid that I’m gonna judge her.

Grabbing on to her hips, I pull her down onto my lap, taking her hands away from her face.

“Talk to me.”

She takes a moment before she finally exposes a part of herself to me. “Only once, but he was really drunk and it . . . well, it was pretty much over before it began.”

God, this chick is practically a virgin, and the thought of some guy using her gets under my skin. Shit, just the thought of any guy, other than me, touching her makes me jealous as hell.

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“He was,” she responds. “But it kept my parents off my back. They really liked him and his family, so we would go out every now and then, but that was about it. So, I can’t help but sometimes wonder what you’re doing with me.”

“Look at me,” I demand because I hate that she would belittle herself for even a second. “I don’t give a shit how inexperienced you are. In fact, I prefer that because the thought of another guy touching you pisses me off. That guy was a dick for treating you like you were disposable. But don’t devalue yourself because of that. I won’t rush you into anything. You know that, right?”

When she nods her head, I try to make it even clearer when I add, “You’re what I want. No one else, okay?”

“I just get scared, and I feel like you might start thinking you’re wasting your time with me. I know you’d prefer that I stay here with you every night, but that’s what scares me. I just need to move slow with this.”

“You’re not a waste of my time. You’re worth every second.”

If she only knew how I take in every moment with her, she wouldn’t have to even question this. So when I see her nodding and letting out a sigh, almost in relief at my words, I take her face in my hands and kiss her. Slow. Because time doesn’t matter to me with her. I don’t even move; I just rest my lips on hers. It’s only when she slips out a giggle that I pull back, and with a smirk, ask, “What?”

“Can we get off your bathroom floor now?” she says with a smile, and I have to laugh at her, happy to see that she’s feeling better about this situation. At least I hope she is.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest and stand to help her up off the floor.

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s go hang out at Zoca’s and get some coffee.”

“Perfect.”

Yesterday, after Candace got upset about seeing the photos, I took her to a local coffee shop where we ran into Gavin. I was nervous having Candace meet him, someone who knows way too much of my past, after she had just gotten a glimpse of it. Oddly, he wasn’t as brash as he normally is, and the two of them seemed to get along for what small talk they wound up having, which wasn’t much.

I’ve definitely put space between us, but I’ve known him for nearly ten years, and it’s strange not having him be more of a presence. He stops by the bar on occasion to listen to bands and grab a drink, but it’s not like it used to be.

I turn around from my desk, sliding the credenza open to take out a few files that I need to run up to the bar, when I see the mattes that I had thrown in here last night. I hate that Candace had to see those. I didn’t consider her reaction then, but now, I regret ever showing her. I don’t blame her for being so upset, having to see images of women from my past, knowing that I had slept with them. It’s something we haven’t done with each other, haven’t even come close, and I tossed those images out there for her without thinking about how hard it would be for her to see.

I don’t even want to think about her kissing another guy, touching another guy, but to see images like that . . . I know I would have lost my shit, so I can’t hold her reaction against her. She has every right.

These photos are my past, a past where I never considered meeting a girl like Candace. A past full of masks, trying to hide from the person I was scared to be. A person that I am now realizing I might be able to be—because of her. Because she is the one I want to take care of—protect. No girl has ever made me feel that way, but she does, and wanting to love her is so much more powerful than my fear of loving her.