“Am I doing something wrong?”
Janice had been over to Gloria’s several times now, at gatherings in the neighborhood, but never alone. Without a lot of people in the house she really got a look at it, and it was spotless. Well-decorated. Her kitchen in particular looked straight out of a magazine.
“Everyone needs adjustments to life changes.”
Trent Robinson had a problem with his focus lately. This was not usual for him. If it had been, then he wouldn’t be one of the most successful art directors at his publication. Most people, himself included, considered Trent to be a superstar. At only twenty-five he had already shot in every major fashion venue in the world and was responsible for finding or making many top models in the industry. His accomplishments were not the mark of a man who could not focus.
If he were to think back on it, Trent’s problems with focus happened when he found a photographer that had before been much unknown. Ken Polli had an impeccable sense of composition and lighting. He was also the walking definition of Trent’s type. Ken was older, possibly in his late thirties by Trent’s estimation. He was tall with white blond hair, a well sculpted chin, and artful scars over his amazing chest and abs.
Some mornings felt like winter even when there was no snow on the ground. The calm and quiet felt chilled despite the warmth bright fall colors seemed to promise. The open window let sun float into the room and cast a line of light through the space. It cut along the grey sheets and defined a strong, naked thigh. The covers billowed around and made a nest that hid all but a tuft of black hair from view.
The sight brought a smile to Snow White’s face. His own hair was ice blonde and he was searching the floor for his boxers. The quiet of the morning wasn’t disturbed in the slightest as he padded softly into the kitchen. The smell of coffee was what had awakened him. He enjoyed the peace and poured two cups before he went back into the bedroom and settled onto the window ledge. “Woolfe?”
A muffled growl reverberated from the covers.
Liam Conway was practically raised on American Westerns. His mother had been a fan of one actor in particular, a man that rarely spoke in his films but radiated a self-assurance that had made her and his sister swoon. He remembered gathering around the telly and catching the marathons on just the right channel.
Though he wasn’t as vocal or as visible as them, perhaps he swooned a bit too. While he knew to some extent that it wasn’t real–particularly the parts with the Indians, which always made him a tad uncomfortable–he had always hoped that America was full of tall handsome cowboys.
If the airport where he’d landed was any indication, he’d been sorely mistaken.
