Chapter 2

The air inside the vintage photo booth was thick, a humid mixture of stale perfume, dusty velvet, and the electric hum of the overhead bulb that had just flickered to life. It was a small, claustrophobic box of black-and-white magic, separated from the raucous energy of the carnival floor only by a heavy, burgundy curtain that had seen better days. The velvet was worn thin in patches, revealing the rough canvas beneath, but it held our shadows close. I shifted on the narrow wooden stool, the wood digging slightly into my thighs through the thin silk of my dress. My heels were off, kicked aside into the corner, leaving my feet bare against the cold, varnished floorboards. I felt exposed, not just by the sudden removal of my shoes, but by the weight of his gaze. He wasn’t looking at the camera anymore. He wasn’t looking at the frame. He was looking at *me*. The space was tight. There was barely room to breathe without our chests nearly touching. I could smell him—expensive cedar, a hint of tobacco, and the crisp, clean scent of his cologne that seemed to cut through the carnival’s sugary sweetness. It was a masculine, grounding