Page 21 of The Photograph

As we’re sucked into an episode ofKilling Eve, I sink deeper and deeper into the couch. And there’s something lovely about sitting next to him: He’s quiet, absorbed in what’s on screen, not fiddling or looking at his social media. Both of us completely zoned out. Every now and again he waves a hand at me to pause so we can review the plot. One episode turns into two, and the whole day recedes like a wave.

He sits back at the end of the second episode and blows out a long breath.

“Perhaps we should stop there,” I say.

“I don’t usually watch TV thrillers, but that was excellent.”

“Really? They’re not your thing?”

He laughs. “I’m a wimp. Once the body count gets too high, I’m hiding behind the couch. The only reason I have not got a cushion in front of my face right now is that I don’t know you well enough to weather the judgment. My sisters had a field day tormenting me with scary horror movies when I was younger. I can still remember some they forced on me when I was ten.”

Pressing my hand to my chest, I say, “I have so many of my own neuroses that I can’t make fun of anyone else’s.” I point at myself. “Poor. Irish. Though there’s clearly some Scandinavian blood on my dad’s side because …” I sweep my hand over my blond head. “Eldest child nightmare issues. Dictatorial, controlling: You name it, I’ve got it. My dad walked out when I was twelve and left six of us kids. My mom leaned on me. Big time.”

We both come from such large families. Maybe he’ll understand the dynamics of that. His sweatpants shift as he hitches one leg up onto the couch and tucks it under the opposite knee, turning toward me.

“You don’t strike me as the neurotic type.” He pauses. “You do come across as the ordering around type, though.”

I grin at him, leaning forward a bit. “It’s very hot in the bedroom,” I whisper.

A hint of pink rises up his cheeks, and his eyes flutter away from mine. “So, me taking over the cooking tonight was …”

Don’t pick him up on that subject change.I need to give him some space, I think.

“Delightful,” I say.

“Really?” This gets me a genuine grin.

“Just what I needed.”

“Perhaps I’ve redeemed myself from the other night, then?” he mutters, sipping his glass of wine. “I got the feeling I wasn’t exactly your type.”

“I always go for the wrong type anyway.”

He nods. “Me too.”

“What do you like?”

“Nerdy, quiet.”

I laugh. “There’s a lot of those in my office.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.” I study him over my wineglass. “We touched on this when we met, but why did you pick me from the dating site again? My profile doesn’t exactly scream calm and reserved.”

This gets me a grin as he gestures up and down my torso. “Come on, Des, you know what you look like. But, other than that, I liked the fact you thought about what I’d written and took the trouble to respond in kind.”

I was hoping he’d say that I sent the funniest response ever.

He stands up and stretches. “I need to get going.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Work tomorrow.” He glances at his wrist. “My last train is in thirty minutes.”

“Sure,” I say.

This is so unlike me. Usually, I’d go in for a kiss and suggest he stay over, but he told me he wants to take it slow, and I don’t think the way I do things is Alex’s modus operandi at all.

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