“Sorry. I get flustered over gorgeous women. And gorgeous tragic women . . . that’s even more . . .”

“More what?”

“Flustering.” He was sounding like a genius now.

She lightened the moment with a smile. “Did you just call me gorgeous?”

“I did. And tragic. Also smart and interesting. I could go on . . .”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Okay.” He was usually pretty good with the pickup lines, but today, everything was coming out wrong. Maybe it was because with Camille Adams, he didn’t want a pickup. He wanted to pick her. This was a new, exhilarating feeling. Highly unexpected, but undeniable.

She dabbed with her napkin again. “Truth be told, I’ve always thought I’d find someone. I wanted to. After a few years, I dated a bit. Julie’s still young, and I loved being a family. I wanted more kids—a bigger family for Julie. And being single started to feel lonely.” She took a swig of her water. “Plus I wanted to get laid.”

“You’re making me wish I wasn’t leaving,” he said.

“That’s not my point. I’m trying to explain . . . I’ve stepped back from dating. I gave a lot to the last relationship. We both really tried, but it wasn’t right, and I realized it was never going to be right. I keep wondering if it’s me . . . or him . . . or us together that simply didn’t work. And I realized I simply don’t care for dating. It just doesn’t work for me.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “So I’m taking myself off the market. Or out of the pool. Whatever.”

“How can you be off the market? We only just met.” What about more kids? he wondered. What about getting laid?

“Very funny,” she said, clearly assuming he was joking. “Let’s finish our lunch, and I’ll show you what I came here for.”

All righty, then. Finn decided not to push it. If he came on too strong, she’d bolt. He knew this because when a woman came on to him, he was the one who bolted.

He backed off and enjoyed the excellent meal, watching her while trying to appear not to. There was this raw, elemental attraction he couldn’t deny, but it wasn’t just that. She was entrancing, with those deep brown eyes and delicate skin, and the unconscious way she bit her lip when she was listening.

“So here’s what I have,” Camille said during a lull after they ate. “I’m pretty good at reading old photographs, but I could use an expert opinion.” She explained the provenance of the photos. A large box of old artifacts and photographs had been delivered to her father from the village of his boyhood, most of them shrouded in mystery. “Do you know much about cameras?”

“A bit. Probably not as much as you.”

She opened her bag on the bench between them and handed him an odd-looking old camera. “It’s an Exakta from the 1930s. And it had film in it.”