Page 70 of The Photograph

Alex said his was the poor end of the family, but this building doesn’t scream badly off to me. Will his father inherit this? Maybe some part of it?

“How did this meeting come about again?”

His gaze wanders over my head and he squeezes my fingers. “I mentioned you in passing as a friend, and she’s been badgering me.” He shrugs. “It felt like something I could do so you could see more of my life. She’s always been very involved with us all, especially me. Maybe it’s a boy thing or a youngest child thing. But it seemed easier to go with the flow and let her meet you—you know?”

No, I don’t know. I’m not sure about Alex’s propensity togo with the flow. And also, he mentioned me as a friend to his grandma, but not anyone else? But he’s trying here, and I don’t want to grill him further on this. We’ve already had the family hiccup with Tom, and I’m not going to create another one.

“Youngest children are always the favorites,” I say, and he grins.

Then the grin fades as he studies me, and his forehead creases. “This is a crazy idea, isn’t it?” He bites his lip. “What was I thinking bringing you here? She’s going to realize we’re together.”

Shaking my head, I reach out and squeeze his hand. “It’s done now. I’ll waltz us through it. How hard can it be?” I wave my other hand. “I’ve faked this loads of times. Pretending is my specialist subject, bro.” I punch his shoulder, and he winces then makes a funny face at me. A loud giggle spills out of my mouth.

He holds up both his hands. “Just be careful what you say to her.”

“She’s going to know I’m gay the minute she claps eyes on me, Alex.”

“You think?” He pans down me, lighting a fire everywhere his eyes land. Heat starts to thump through my bloodstream.

I widen my eyes at him. “For the love of God, don’t eye me up like that in front of her.”

This makes him laugh. “I was just looking.”

“You looked like you wanted to eat me.”

Pursing his lips, he nods. “That about sums it up.”

I want to press my nose into his neck, but the elevator pings and the doors open and we step wordlessly into a corridor. A thick cream runner with gold-decorated edges runs up the middle of the parquet floor and we pass gleaming walnut doors and white moldings. Alex stops in front of a door at the end and presses a buzzer, unleashing a cacophony of yapping on the other side of the polished wood.

A sly smile curves his mouth. “I might have forgotten to mention she has a couple of Pekinese.”

I bug my eyes out at him, grinning. “Perfect. You know how much I love dogs.”

The door opens to reveal a bent little old lady with sharp blue eyes and two small dogs, one of whom is down on its haunches, growling. It takes one look at Alex and clearly decides he’s a friend, then launches itself at me with a ferocious snap of its jaws.

“Betsy, Betsy. Oh my God,” Alex’s grandma says in a wavering voice.

Fortunately, the snarling and snapping are all an act, and when I bring my hands to her wriggling body, she just writhes in ecstasy.

“Oh man, she’s like a fake killer dog,” I say, laughing. “If only all women were so easy to please,” I add before I even register what I’m saying, bending down to try to hold on to Betsy who is now yapping and going berserk around my feet. Mrs. Sachs laughs as Betsy switches attention and starts jumping on Alex.

“C’mon, you crazy dog,” he says, going down on his haunches and rubbing her all over. His long fingers comb through her coat, and I need to stop watching what his hands are doing—likeyesterday. The other dog, which is distinctly fatter, waddles forward deciding he’s missing out on all the fuss.

“This is Ivor,” Alex says, looking up at me, and it’s far too much like he’s on his knees in front of me for me to hold back the heat rising up my neck. To cover myself I bend down to rub the other dog, who grunts and wheezes in satisfaction.

“I like a guy who sends a woman into a dangerous situation first,” I say to Ivor, who rolls onto his side with a contented whoosh of air. Alex and his grandma laugh.

“Oh my God, they’re adorable,” I say. I know how to ingratiate myself. Admiring someone’s pet is like complimenting them, and, sure enough, when I glance up, Alex’s grandma is beaming down at me.

“They’re getting old like me,” she says, turning and shuffling down the ornate hallway, Betsy dancing around our feet. “Where Betsy gets her energy from is a mystery to me. She’s seventy-six in dog years.”

As we walk past the long windows with pale taupe curtains, I spy a deck outside running the length of the apartment. A gilded piece of art sits on every bit of wall between the window frames.

“It’s always the women causing the trouble,” I say with a laugh, and Alex’s grandma turns, eyes sparkling.

“You don’t strike me as someone who’d have any trouble with ladies at all.”

What’s she’s implying? I’m going to take it as a straight shot. “Damn right. I’m always the one creating trouble in my relationships.”

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