Camera Chemistry (Love Through a Lens, #0.5)

by Chelsea Curto

“Your conscience doesn’t allow you to keep a library book for longer than the allotted hold time.

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that my life mirrors a tragedy rather than a comedy, not a single happily ever after in sight.

Woman accomplishes what no man is capable of: a mind-blowing orgasm,’”

That’s all I was to them; a breeding machine. It didn’t matter how hard I’d worked at becoming an accomplished neurosurgeon. If I wasn’t a mother, I hadn’t succeeded.

even if the nights get lonely, they’re infinitely better than being with someone who isn’t head over heels in love with me.

I’m not mad about the vernacular; if shit is the worst thing to come out of her mouth, I deserve a pat on the back for a parenting job well done.

The smile is slightly lopsided, lifting higher on the right side of his mouth than the left. And, I realize seconds later, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. He smiles with his whole being, a bright explosion of color and giddiness working across his face.

We’re on two different levels; she’s in the stratosphere, on a pedestal of loveliness, while I reside on Earth, a mortal who will never be good enough.

The glow is similar to a summer day when the air is warm, and the sun is bright in the cloud-free sky. You tip your head back, close your eyes, and relish in the blissfulness of serenity, a picture of perfection. That is what it’s like to be in her presence. It’s overwhelming.

When I subtly inhale and try to savor the scent, I realize I’m totally and completely fucked.

Hey, everybody.” I raise my voice, and all the people on set peer at me. “Can we take a minute to appreciate how smart this woman is? She’s a goddamn genius, and she’s sitting here talking with me? I’m a lucky bastard.”

“He’s a man. We give the bare minimum, and they eat it up.

Aiden Wood, a man I’ve known exists for a shorter amount of time than it takes me to get to and from work, has loudly and unequivocally made me feel more wanted, more special in fifteen minutes than others have over half a decade.

Maggie’s laugh tumbles out of her like spilled wine. It’s popped champagne at New Year’s Eve with gold confetti around us, sticking to our sweat-covered skin. It’s iridescent and all consuming, a sound I want—I need—to bottle up and replay on my worst days.

“What can I say? I’m a boring, middle-aged man. I don’t bring a whole lot to the table.” “Not true. You can cook boxed pasta. That’s more than a lot of men can say.”

“Sex is emotional, even if you take the emotions out of it.

she’s looking at me, waiting to hear what I have to say, and there isn’t enough time left in my lifetime to tell her everything.