He stares at me for half a second, his expression scrutinizing. A strange chill passes over me—it’s as if he’s seeing more than he’s supposed to—but then he looks away, turning back to the Statue of Liberty. I force myself to stop clenching my jaw and to open the camera app on my phone instead.

The rest of the ride goes by quickly and I keep filming until we arrive at Staten Island. I grimace at the crowd waiting on the other side. We have to hurry if we want to make the ferry back.

“Come on,” I say, tugging Emmitt’s arm. He follows me readily, still taking photographs. The sound of the shutter has all but faded into the background now that I’ve heard it over a dozen times in the last ten minutes alone.

I try not to think too hard on that.

14

When we finally board the ship back, I slump in my new seat, exhausted. I expect Emmitt to keep taking photographs for the prompt, but he sits across from me instead and the camera flashes in my face.

I turn to him in surprise. “What are you doing?”

He responds by taking another photo of me.

“I’m going to throw something at you,” I warn, pointing a finger at him. “I don’t think your precious little camera will enjoy being crushed by my economics textbook.”

Emmitt’s mouth curls with amusement. “Sorry. I just needed photographic evidence in case you decided to push me overboard.”

I roll my eyes. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t toss your camera to the sharks after I’m finished with you.”

“Oh, say it again, I’m close,” Emmitt teases, a wicked light in his eyes. This time, I really do contemplate throwing my textbook at him.

“I don’t know who told you your jokes were funny, but they were lying,” I say darkly.

Emmitt laughs, throwing his head back. There’s a beauty mark on his neck that my eyes are drawn to, but I quickly divert my gaze.

God, I wish I could put a paper bag over his head. Maybe then I’d have some peace in my heart.

Instead of focusing on that, I pull out a different topic from the hat of options in my head. “Why are you doing this contest anyway?”

Emmitt’s humor dies immediately, and he stares at me with a flat expression. I blink at him, trying to make sense of the sudden mood change. He’s so strange. It seems he can flip between personas as he pleases.

Sometimes he’s bold and flirtatious, and other times he’s cold and aloof. I can’t tell which one of the personalities is his true self. I’m slowly leaning more toward the latter, even as he puts on a bright performance.

“I like photography,” he says baldly.