“When will Haven and Rosalie be able to leave the hospital?”

“One more week, they think. Hardy will be over the moon, bringing his two girls home.” Joe paused. “But I hope my sister’s not going to want to have any more children. Hardy says he couldn’t survive this again, even if Haven wants to take the chance.”

“Is there a risk of preeclampsia if she gets pregnant again?”

Joe nodded.

“Haven may be fine with just having one child,” I said. “Or Hardy may change his mind. You never can predict what people will do.” Having reached the last picture, I handed the tablet back to Joe.

We were at his house in the Old Sixth Ward, a charming bungalow with a slightly smaller companion house in the back. Joe had painted the interiors of both buildings a soft, creamy white and stained the trim a rich walnut. The decor was spare and masculine, with a few pieces of beautifully restored furniture. Joe had spent more time showing me the smaller house, where he worked and kept his photography equipment. To my surprise, there was even a darkroom, which he admitted he seldom used, but would never get rid of.

“Every now and then, I’ll shoot a roll of film because there’s still something magical about developing a print in the darkroom.”

“Magical?” I repeated with a quizzical smile.

“I’ll show you sometime. There’s nothing like seeing an image appear in the developer tray. And it’s all about craft: You can’t tell if the exposure is too light or dark, you can’t see the details of burning and dodging, so you have to go with what feels right, what past experience has taught you.”

“So you prefer that to Photoshop?”

“No, Photoshop has too many advantages. But I still like the idea of having to wait to see a picture in the darkroom. Taking time, and seeing the image with a fresh perspective… it’s not as practical as digital, but it’s more romantic.”

I loved his passion for his work. I loved it that he thought of a tiny windowless room filled with trays of caustic chemicals as romantic.

Scrolling through files of photos on a computer monitor, I found a series of shots he’d taken in Afghanistan… beautiful, stark, riveting. Some of the landscapes were otherworldly. A pair of old men sitting in front of a turquoise wall… a soldier’s silhouette against a red sky as he stood on a mountain path… a dog, seen from an eye-level perspective with a soldier’s booted feet in the foreground.

“How long were you there?” I asked.

“Only a month.”

“How did you end up going?”

“A friend from college was filming a documentary. He and his camera crew were embedded with troops at a firebase in Kandahar. But the stills photographer had to leave early. So they asked if I would step in and finish. I was sent to the same two-day training session the rest of the crew had gone through, basically how not to screw things up in a combat environment. The dogs at the front lines were incredible. Not one of them flinched at the sound of a gunshot. One day on patrol, I watched a Lab sniff out an IED that the metal detectors didn’t catch.”

“That was incredibly dangerous.”

“Yes. But she was a smart dog. She knew what she was doing.”

“I meant dangerous for you.”

“Oh.” His lips quirked. “I’m pretty good at staying out of trouble.”

I tried to return the smile, but there was a stabbing sensation in my chest as I thought of him taking that kind of risk. “Would you do something like that again?” I couldn’t resist asking. “Take a job where you could be hurt or… or worse?”

“Any of us could be hurt, no matter where we are,” he said. “When your number’s up, it’s up.” His gaze held mine as he added, “But I wouldn’t go into a situation like that if you didn’t want me to.”

The implication that my feelings might sway such a decision was a little unnerving. But part of me responded to it, craved that kind of influence over him. That worried me even more.

“Come on,” Joe murmured, leading me out of the small building. “Let’s go into the house.”

Exploring, I went into the small bedroom. The queen-size bed was covered with simple white sheets and a white quilt. I admired the headboard, a panel made of wooden vertical slats. “Where did you get this?”

“Haven gave it to me. It was the door of an old freight elevator in her apartment building.”

Inspecting the piece more closely, I saw a long-faded word stenciled in red letters on the side – danger – and I smiled. I ran my hand across the smooth surface of a turned-over sheet. “These are nice. Looks like a high thread count.”

“I don’t know the thread count.”

I kicked off my shoes and crawled onto the queen-size bed. Reclining on my side, I shot him a provocative glance. “Apparently you don’t share my appreciation for luxury linens.”

Joe lowered himself next to me. “Believe me, you’re the most luxurious thing that’s ever been on this bed.” Slowly his hand followed the curve of my waist and hip. “Avery… I want to take your picture.”

My brows lifted. “When?”

“Now.”

I looked down at my sleeveless top and jeans. “In this outfit?”

Idly, he traced a pattern on my thigh. “Actually… I was thinking you could take it off.”

My eyes turned huge. “Oh, my God. Are you seriously asking me to pose for naked pictures?”