Chapter 2: When Lightning Strikes Twice
Mary Rose POV
My camera slips from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Time slows as my mother's Hasselblad the only piece of her I have left tumbles toward unforgiving marble. Three thousand dollars' worth of vintage glass and irreplaceable memory spinning through air like my heart spinning through my chest.
Thomas Gray moves faster than physics should allow, his strong hands catching the lens attachment before it can shatter against stone. His fingers brush mine as he steadies the camera, and electricity shoots through my entire body a feeling I thought Henry had murdered along with everything else good inside me.
"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and warm. "This looks expensive."
"It's..." I swallow hard, accepting my camera back with trembling hands. "It belonged to my mother."
His steel-blue eyes soften with understanding that cuts straight through my defenses. "Then it's irreplaceable."
The way he says it like he knows exactly what irreplaceable loss feels like makes my throat tight. When was the last time someone spoke to me like my things mattered? Like I mattered?
"Yes, it is." I clutch the camera against my chest, using its familiar weight to anchor myself. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." He gestures toward the ballroom's center. "Shall we talk about the Wellington-Morrison celebration? I understand you have some specific vision for capturing their day."
Professional ground. Safe territory. I can do this.
"I'd like to understand the flow first," I tell him, raising my camera to frame the space. "When people move through rooms, they create natural patterns of connection. The best photos happen when you anticipate those moments instead of staging them."
"Interesting philosophy." Thomas moves to stand beside me, close enough that I catch his scent again cedar and something warmer, more complex. "Most photographers want to dictate every pose."
"Those aren't photographers. They're picture-takers." The words come out sharper than intended, years of defending my vision against Henry's dismissal coloring my tone. "Sorry, I just... I believe in capturing truth, not performance."
"Don't apologize for having standards." His smile transforms his entire face, erasing years and revealing the young man he once was. "Tell me about truth through your lens."
Nobody's ever asked me that before. Henry used to roll his eyes when I talked about my work, calling it "artsy nonsense" that embarrassed him in front of his business school friends.
"Love has a language," I hear myself saying, lowering my camera to meet his gaze. "Body language, micro-expressions, the way people orbit each other in crowded rooms. Most people miss it because they're looking for the obvious moments the kiss, the tears, the big gestures. But real love lives in the spaces between."
"The spaces between." Thomas repeats my words like they taste good in his mouth. "What does that look like?"
I raise my camera, capture him in the act of listening really listening, the way his whole body leans slightly toward me, the way his eyes never leave my face.
"Like that," I whisper, showing him the image on my camera's display. "The way you just focused entirely on what I was saying. That's what love looks like when nobody's performing for cameras."
He studies the photograph for a long moment, something unreadable crossing his features. "You see a great deal, Mary Rose."
My name in his voice does dangerous things to my pulse. "Occupational hazard."
"Is it a hazard? Seeing so much?"
The question catches me off guard. Henry never asked about the emotional cost of my work, never wondered if capturing other people's happiness while my own heart stayed locked away might be difficult.
"Sometimes." I adjust my camera strap, buying time. "It's hard to document love when you don't believe in it anymore."
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too much truth, too fast. I brace for the awkward silence that usually follows when I accidentally reveal too much of my damage.
Instead, Thomas nods slowly. "I understand that feeling."
"Your wife," I say softly. "How long has it been?"
"Five years this December." Pain flickers across his features before he masters it. "Catherine. Her name was Catherine."
Was. Past tense that cuts like glass.
"I'm sorry." The inadequate words feel heavy on my tongue. "That must have been devastating."
"It was." He moves toward the windows overlooking the gardens, and I follow, drawn by something in his voice. "She fought cancer for two years. Brave doesn't begin to describe her strength."
I watch him in profile, noting the way he holds his shoulders when grief threatens to overwhelm him. Another occupational hazard I see pain as clearly as I see love.
"She must have been extraordinary," I offer.
"She was." His smile returns, sadder but genuine. "She would have liked you, I think. She believed artists see the world more clearly than the rest of us."
The compliment hits deeper than it should. "I don't know about that. Sometimes I think I see too much, understand too little."
"What do you mean?"
I limp slightly as I move to another window, my old injury acting up the way it always does when emotions run high. Thomas notices his eyes flick to my uneven gait with concern, not judgment.
"I can capture the moment someone falls in love," I explain, testing different angles through my viewfinder. "But I couldn't see when someone was falling out of love with me."
Damn. There I go again, bleeding truth all over a professional consultation.
"Whoever let you go was a fool."
The quiet certainty in his voice stops my breath. I lower my camera, find him watching me with an intensity that makes my knees unsteady.
"You don't know me," I whisper.
"I know you see beauty where others see ordinary moments. I know you honor things that matter your mother's camera, authentic emotion, truth over performance." He steps closer, and my heart hammers against my ribs. "I know you limp slightly on your right side but try to hide it, which tells me you've learned to be ashamed of things that shouldn't cause shame."
Heat floods my cheeks. Nobody's ever noticed my limp, much less called it out with such gentle directness.
"Car accident when I was sixteen," I admit. "Same one that killed my parents."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "That's when you inherited the camera."
"Only thing that survived intact." I touch the Hasselblad's worn leather strap. "My mama used to take pictures of everything grocery store trips, bedtime stories, Tuesday afternoons when nothing special was happening. She said ordinary moments were the most precious because you don't think to remember them until they're gone."
"Wise woman."
"The wisest." My throat tightens with old grief. "Photography saved me after they died. Gave me purpose when I didn't want to exist anymore."
"And now you save other people's most important moments."
The way he phrases it like my work has noble purpose instead of being "a hobby that got out of hand" makes my eyes sting with unexpected tears.
"I try to." I raise my camera to hide my emotional response, but he gently catches my wrist.
"You don't have to hide from me, Mary Rose."
The kindness in his voice undoes something fundamental inside me. When was the last time someone saw me break down and offered comfort instead of criticism? When did anyone last look at my tears like they mattered?
"I should," I manage. "Hide, I mean. Professional boundaries and all."
"Should is a dangerous word." His thumb brushes across my wrist where my pulse pounds frantically. "It usually means we're denying something true."
God, this man is dangerous. Not in the way Henry was dangerous all sharp edges and cruel words designed to cut. Thomas is dangerous like sunrise after the longest night, like hope when you've forgotten how to want anything.
"What would you be doing if should wasn't a factor?" he asks quietly.
The honest answer terrifies me. I'd be leaning into his touch. I'd be asking about his life, his dreams, what makes him laugh. I'd be wondering if his mouth tastes as gentle as his words sound.
Instead, I step back, clutching my camera like armor.
"I'd be taking pictures," I lie. "That's what I do."
He studies my face for a long moment, reading secrets I haven't told him. "All right. Show me how you'd photograph the Wellington-Morrison ceremony."
Safe ground again. I can breathe.
For the next hour, we walk through the ballroom and adjacent spaces, discussing sight lines and lighting considerations. Thomas knows his venue intimately which corners catch afternoon sun, where sound carries best, how foot traffic naturally flows during cocktail hour.
But more than that, he listens to my suggestions with genuine interest. When I explain why I prefer natural light over artificial flash, he nods like my expertise matters. When I mention concerns about guest comfort during photo sessions, he offers solutions that protect both my artistic vision and the couple's experience.
This is what collaboration feels like. Partnership between equals who respect each other's skills.
"The bride mentioned wanting photos in a garden setting," I say as we finish touring the interior spaces. "Something about memorial roses?"
Thomas's expression shifts, becoming more guarded. "Catherine's memorial garden. We could arrange that, if you think it would photograph well."
"I'd need to see it first. Understand the light quality, the background elements."
He checks his watch, and I realize with shock that we've been talking for three hours. Three hours that felt like thirty minutes.
"It's getting late," I say, reaching for my equipment cases. "I should let you get back to your day."
"Actually..." He hesitates, and I catch something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Would you like to see the garden now? The late afternoon light is usually quite beautiful there."
My rational mind screams warnings. This consultation is over. I should leave, process what happened here, figure out why this man affects me so profoundly.
But my heart, traitor that it is, wants to see where Catherine Gray rested in eternal beauty. Wants to understand what Thomas Gray considers worthy of memorial.
Wants to spend more time in his presence, professional boundaries be damned.
"That would be helpful for planning purposes," I lie, pretending this is still about work.
His smile suggests he knows exactly what this is really about.
"Excellent. The garden is just through those doors."
As we walk toward the exit, my heart pounds with anticipation and terror in equal measure. I'm about to see where Thomas Gray's heart lies buried, and somehow I know that whatever I discover there will change everything between us.