Page 12 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

“Sure. Pretty sure they’re not talking about…this, though.” I waved my hand toward the barn. As if on cue, a gust of wind kicked up and blew a chunk of something—God knows what—off the roof and onto the mushy ground.

Morgan stepped closer to the opening. “Come on, let’s look inside.”

The splintered wood barn doors with deep gouges missing were cracked open. To avoid my palms getting stabbed by a million slivers, I tucked my hands into my jacket sleeve and pulled.

“Oof.” Morgan scrunched her nose. “It could use a little airing out.”

What in the tetanus shot was happening in here?

The place smelled like a combination of cat pee, mold, and ripe pungent compost. If I thought the outside was a hot mess, the inside was worse.

Busted-up garden tools and machinery, a tossed-aside rusted sink, and dozens of broken mice traps were scattered across the barn, as if my aunt and uncle finally just gave up trying to trap any rodents.

Buckets, overflowing totes, and piles of God-knows-what covered with tarps filled the “gift shop” space, which I remembered as shelves flowing with wreaths, crocheted items, and blinged-out ornaments. No chance in hell would I lift the fabric and check what was underneath.

Morgan took a tentative step. “Guess you won’t be taking any pictures in here, huh?”

Captain Obvious to the rescue. “Probably not.” I stepped back into the fresh air and tried to remove the stench singeing my nose hairs.

When Pete and Patty said they spent the summers on their lake home in Brainerd, but welcomed me to use the property for pictures, I was bummed.

Would’ve been nice to see them in person after all these years.

But now, I was grateful I didn’t have to come up with some words on the fly about their rotting farm.

Morgan and I walked the property, finding some hidden gems. Sunbeams funneled through the lush greenery like a golden kaleidoscope, and I started envisioning the outside shots.

The property itself really was beautiful, thank God , with rows of Christmas pine trees, sitting rocks, majestic oak trees, and a small shed that actually had the “good” rustic vibe.

Ugh . When did I become the photographer that liked to shoot farmhouse chic decor, but only if the “farmhouse” was in an Upper East Side penthouse?

Minnesota had a lot of beauty, of course, but maybe seeing the New York city skyline for the last fifteen years had made me forget the quiet beauty in rural America.

“Let’s head back to the truck. I need to grab the stuff before Olivia and Tommy get here. ”

Morgan nodded but remained uncharacteristically quiet as her eyes darted across the property—probably scared that a rabid raccoon was going to get muddy paw prints on her white jacket. Whatever. Who the hell wore white anyway? It was the least practical of all the colors.

Back at the truck, the tailgate screeched as I dropped the latch. I tugged off the tarp and pulled out the totes carrying lenses, tripods, a reflector, and champagne for a celebration picture. I strapped a bag to my back and tucked items under my arm.

Morgan stepped in front of me and held out a hand. “I can help, you know.”

I tried to swallow back the smirk. “You’re wearing white.”

“In all fairness, when I left the house this morning, I didn’t know I’d be going to a farm.” Morgan brushed her palms against the front of her jacket. “But we’re good. Give me some.”

In a stroke of photography luck, the bright sun hid behind a cloud. I snapped a couple of pictures and viewed the finder to check the exposure. As Morgan cupped her hand around her face to peer through a barn window, I used her as a test subject and snapped a few more.

The barn, as beat up as it was, translated a little better in the photo. I clicked at different angles, the trees, the outlines, and finally hung the camera from my neck. “Hey, can you step back and face me for a few test shots?”

Morgan clapped the dust from her hands. “Sure.”

Beautiful or not, Morgan had zero clue how to pose.

She kept her arms militant on her side, then shifted to pop them on her hips.

I almost wanted to tell her the pose didn’t matter since these were test shots, but it was too amusing seeing her try.

“Forward a little, good, back,” I instructed.

God, this was fun. I actually didn’t need her to move at all, and any moment now she was going to catch on.

“No, two inches forward, two inches back.”

“Christ, really?”

Now Morgan was rocking a super- Vogue , grumpy-model look. This was more authentic. I snapped a few more pics, then put her out of her misery. “Just be natural. I don’t need you to pose.”

The camera shutters were always a rush, like playing photography slots, never knowing which picture would be the treasure.

I kept snapping when, finally, Morgan released whatever monstrosity was happening in her face and studied the barn door.

And if I didn’t have the camera, I wasn’t sure I would’ve caught the slight parting of the plump lips, or the twinkle in her eyes as she stared at the wood.

I stopped snapping photos and slowly lowered my camera, taking in the sight. God, she really is beautiful .

A car door slammed in the near distance, and I twisted my neck. “They’re here.”

“Good.” Morgan started walking toward the path. “Because I have an idea.”