Page 27 of The Photograph

When he turns it around, there’s a picture of a gorgeous guy. He does appear vaguely familiar.

I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m not very good at who’s who.”

“Don’t worry. Spend some time with me and you’ll be totally up to speed on what’s happening in this city. I waste way too much of my time on gossip sites, but I can find out anything.” He puts more chickpeas into his mouth. “My boss, Jo, is a genius at security, and Janus has a friend who’s a hacker.” Narrowing his eyes, he hums. “I bet he could track down all sorts of interesting information for you.”

I swallow down my own mouthful of food. “Anything illegal would be out of the question, I think.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

A crease appears between his eyebrows. “But coming back to the specifics of companies, obviously we come across a lot of businesses working in this space and I’m amazed at the things that are funded. I mean the tech is often so sketchy.”

“God, it would be amazing to pick your brains on all this stuff. I could learn so much.”

“What are you interested in? You want solid, established companies, startups, or early-stage technology?”

I take another bite of my salad. “Perhaps we could talk through it now, focus it down, and I could show you where I’ve got to. Maybe what we really need is a series of lunches to get a grip on the detail?” I peer at him from under my lashes.

He squints at me, a broad smile stretching his perfect pink lips. “Sounds good to me.”

10

DES

Iplace my cup on the coffee table in the center of the living room and plop down on the couch, putting my feet up next to it. Marla eyes me over her phone and pops another chip into her mouth from the bag at her hip and chews as I hold out a hand.

I pull up the picture Alex sent me of his open suit pants, his hands on his boxers. I could definitely develop a thing for smart suits if he’s in them. And the way he blushed when he had a thought that might be embarrassing, but then said it anyway. I curl my toes in my slippers.

“By the way, Dessy, Mom’s coming over later.”

Oh God. I eye the detritus spread across every surface in the apartment and glance at my watch. Some warning would have been nice! Will I ever get to sit down for five minutes? And I need to work today. A visit from my mom involves copious amounts of wine or gin and tonic and lots of indiscretion.

“She’s bringing Lorna.” She chows down on another chip and her lip curls. For some girl-related unknown reason, sister number five does not get on with sister number two. Although it’s not exactly a surprise because they are like oil and water.

“I think I’m going out,” she grumbles.

“You don’t want to hang out with Lorna?” I say with a grin.

Tutting at me, she swings her hair. “She’s a bitch to me.”

I hold up my hands and shake my head as she opens her mouth again.

Warmth percolates through me at the idea of Lorna coming over. She’s a lawyer downtown, and I don’t see her as often as I’d like. Mom’s a crapshoot—we could get tears, hysterics, or rapturous joy—but Lorna is as straight as they come: chatty, loud (as we all are), but sensible. Sort of. Thank God. Maybe she can give me a view on Alex because he’s so far outside my dating playbook that I might as well be on the moon. Her long-term boyfriend Brad wasn’t exactly Mr. Wade-in-and-sweep-you-off-your-feet, more like bland as a boiled potato, and boy do I need some advice on dealing with a guy like Alex.

“What time?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Two, I think.”

Jesus, it’s one-thirty now. I lean toward the table and sigh, downing my coffee in a gulp. Then I scoot around the apartment, throwing laundry in and loading the dishwasher as Marla sits on her ass. As I vacuum under her feet, my patience snaps.

“Marla, you are living here. Can you not get off your backside and help?”

She rolls her eyes theatrically, and leans forward hissing, “It’s Mom, Desmond, not the pope. Why the hell are you cleaning up for her?”

“Um, because it’s more pleasant for them to come to a clean and tidy environment, rather than somewhere a tornado rolled through.” I wave my hand around at all her stuff on the table and the couch and her pile of shoes by the front door. Even in the short time she’s been here, I don’t think she’s put one pair away in the closet.

“Well, I think …” she starts.

“Do I give two fucks what you think, Marla? No, I don’t. Clear your shit into your room and the closet. Now.”

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