“Rosie is my best friend,” I say with a raised eyebrow. “You are a stranger. Call me Samina, or nothing at all. You wouldn’t like it if I called you Mitt, would you?”

Emmitt’s mouth curls in distaste. “Mitt is a horrid nickname.”

I offer him a sharp smile. “I think it’s rather fitting.”

He huffs, looking away from me. “Point made. I won’t call you Mina.”

I pat his shoulder amicably. “And I won’t call you Mitt. The best of both worlds.” I’m tempted to make some kind of joke about his blond hair and Hannah Montana, but we’re not at that level of friendship and we never will be.

We wade deeper into the terminal, and I head for a row of seats, intending to plug in my headphones and wait out the next thirty minutes without speaking to Emmitt.

When I sit down, Emmitt stops in front of me, reaching in his bag and pulling out a slim black camera. I study it briefly, but I don’t know enough about cameras to make any kind of relevant judgment. I briefly wonder what happened to the disposable camera he bought from the deli the day we met, before discarding the thought. It doesn’t matter.

He hangs the strap around his neck so the camera rests against his chest as he takes in our surroundings, catching sight of the glittering blue bay through the glass walls. “The ocean?” he asks. “You meant literal waves.”

I nod, tapping my fingers against the edge of my seat. “It works, right? The ocean seemed like a good backdrop for photographs.”

A smile pulls at Emmitt’s mouth, though it doesn’t fully bloom to life like before. “It works,” he agrees, his expression thoughtful as he looks around.

Then he lifts the camera to his face, the shutter clicking as he takes a photo of the terminal. I lean forward without thinking, watching him.

Emmitt doesn’t seem to notice, his attention on whatever he’s seeing through the lens of his camera. He adjusts the setting without looking up, the lens zooming in and out as he moves in a slow circle, observing the people around us.

There’s something strange about this scene, as if Emmitt is separate from the rest of the world. His hair is bright in the afternoon sunlight, and every time he lifts his head to take in a sight, his brown eyes are glittering. He holds a million secrets in his gaze, and it’s increasingly hard to look away.

No wonder he’s an actor. Even in real life, he manages to captivate any audience.

When he’s facing me again, he lowers his camera and arches his brows. “What? Why are you staring at me?”