Page 24 of The Photograph

She’s right. Mei came here from China when she was twenty, and her accent is thick, but she does all our research on Chinese companies. I’m in awe of the detail she puts into her reports. She receives lots of internal kudos for it, which in this battery farm of analysts is the whole name of the game.

“Yeah, I guess. Certainly seems complicated. How about you?”

Her face sours. “I’m trying to pull together data on Chinese mining interests, but it’s so opaque. Everything is hidden behind tiers of companies all over the world, which are no doubt connected to the Communist Party, government institutions … etcetera, etcetera.” She straightens her brown wool sweater and pulls a bit of fluff from her pants.

I don’t envy her being a market specialist, but maybe it’s just an excuse to get the business to fund her travel back home when she can’t find the information she needs and has to “go and talk to some people.”

“You’ve got contacts, though, yeah?”

She nods. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Meeting a friend.”

She waggles her eyebrows at me. “A romantic friend?”

“Nah, someone I know from college.”

The lie trips easily off my tongue. Although I trust Mei, I don’t share my sexual orientation with anyone.Except Des. Wow, yes …Something about Des makes me want to spill all these secrets and thoughts about who I am. His confidence in himself and his own sexuality, in comparison to my lack of confidence, the mask I wear. I’ve never been on the scene, and Des is so deeply entrenched in it. What is his history? What is the wholescene?And that picture of the naked guy going into his bathroom.

When I head out of the office at lunchtime, the sky is a brilliant blue above the constant yelling, loud chatting on headsets, and car horns. The subway rumbles away underneath my feet. When I’m down four or five blocks, I spot Des standing outside Sweetgreen on the other side of the street and I draw in a sharp breath. He’s wearing tight black jeans and a fitted white shirt, with sunglasses hooked in his neckline and his blond hair a casual tumble of curls. He’s staring at something in the other direction. I snap a couple of pictures of him with my phone as I approach. Something to pore over later, to remind me of this day, this lunch. I press my hand to my chest.

“Des!”

He turns, his face breaking into a broad grin. Then he scans down my ankle-length suit pants to my polished shoes and back up to my shirt, and his smile widens.

“I have to say this …” He gestures up and down, pursing his lips as he leans in. “… is very sexy.” His body is so close I can feel its heat seep into me.

How does he always have that way of making my whole body tighten like this? He’s going to be so much better at playing this waiting game than me. What was I thinking? I scan over the blond curls and my palm itches, so I gesture down his torso.

“This is very … “

“Gay?” he says.

“Gorgeous,” I blurt out, my face reddening, but his lips curl up even more.

He leans in and kisses my cheek, and the scent of something warm and spicy assaults me. I picked it up the first night I met him. In the open collar of his crisp white shirt, his chest is a smooth golden V, the thump of his pulse visible in his neck. My tongue peeks out to wet my lips as he pulls back, and he doesn’t miss it, eyes crinkling as they meet mine.

“What was that photograph you sent me this morning?”

I smile, and he widens his eyes. Then he steps into my body, and the shape of him presses into my hip as he puts his mouth against my ear.

“Stop sending me sexy pictures at work,” he whispers. “I obsess over them and can’t concentrate.” Then he nips my lobe.

We’re in the street!My heart hammers like a drill and my hand shoots up involuntarily to his body: I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, but it lands on his ribs and all I can do is tense at the feeling of muscles bunching under my palm.Holy shit.

Laughing blue eyes meet mine when he steps back, and all that sharp tension gives way to a hollow ache. I want the warmth of his body back, pressing into mine.

He winks and turns, gesturing at Sweetgreen behind us.

“This is an awesome place by the way—salads, soups … you name it. Healthy.”

The air swims in the bright sunshine, and I blink up at the sign and the people flowing in and out of the doors. He tilts his head toward the shop, so I follow him into the cool interior trying desperately not to ogle his ass in his jeans. When he swings around to explain the menu to me, I’m busted.My face goes hot.

He tips forward, smiling. “Let me tell you how this works.”

After we’ve ordered and collected our food, we slide into two chairs at a wooden table overlooking Wall Street and he rolls his shoulders.

“I love it when we get into spring,” he sighs.

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