Page 9 of The Photograph

I blink fast. “You want me to … guess?”

Gabe nods, and the mischievous glint in his eye draws me in.All right, I’ll play.

“Well, you being on the selection panel tells me Holloway House is a personal project.” His expression remains unchanged—great poker face— “For … yourself or someone close to you … maybe?”

He makes a sound in his throat. “You’re right, it’s personal. So, I’ll be very involved in this project. Is this going to be a problem?”

How involved?“Not at all, but you’ve hired me, so, can I expect you’ll listen to my recommendations?”

“When can you start, Aelin?”And that’s a resounding no. But I don’t care, it’s Holloway.

I resist the pull of his rich, rumbling voice and clasp my hands in my lap.

Yesterday?“As soon as we sign the paperwork.”

Something hard flickers in his eyes.Or do my nerves make me paranoid?

“Can you sign tomorrow?”

This is it. It’s official. Nearly.My heart thumping hard against my ribs, I pull my cell out of my purse. “I’ll make an appointment with your office tomorrow.”

“Come by the penthouse at 2:00 PM.”

I still for a second. The last time I was invited to a penthouse for a sign-in, the experience wasn’t… “Your penthouse?”

He studies me with a slight frown. “Yes, this is a personal project, so you’ll be working for me, not my company. I’ll be out of the country, but Ann and Smithson will be there.”

Breathing out slowly, I nod. When the car stops in front of my house, I extend my hand to Gabe. “Thank you so much for your trust in me. I won’t disappoint you.”

He enfolds my hand, and the warmth of his touch radiates along my arm and flows down my lower back.

Oh, my...

****

Two weeks later, I groan as I push all my weight against my front door. Home. Finally.

After kicking off my heels on the shaggy wine-colored carpet of the living room, I inhale the mixed scent of Springwater air freshener, a hint of Cara’s cookies from this morning’s breakfast, and the remnant of the peppermint undertone of Emma’s perfume.

Cell in hand, I drop on my khaki sofa. My sister answers on the second ring. “Hey, angel, is everything okay?”

Flopping on my back on the orange and yellow cushions. “I’m great. Life is awesome and I love you.”

She chuckles. “So, Holloway’s going well.”

A large pillow falls on the floor as I hop on my knees. “It is. How are you doing, my Cara?”

Warmth and excitement wrap around her words like every time she talks about her art. “The relationship between French people and food is tumultuous and so much fun. I have at least four favorite dishes I have to send you.”

“Can’t wait. How’s Andreas doing? Who’s he? Do you like him?”

When she pauses, I sit on my haunches and tug on the fringes of one of the cushions.

There’s a catch in her voice. “He’s fine, I think he stayed in Prague when I came here.”

I worry about her being so strong all the time. “Are you lonely?”

A long time ago, we promised each other to never lie to each other about our feelings, however bad or scary they might be.

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