Page 43 of Better Hate than Never

“You got a new haircut?” I ask, squinting as I tweak the lens’s focus. “It looks great.”

Jack nods, rubbing a hand over his tight, close-cropped black curls. “Day after Thanksgiving. I love it.”

I smile. “Good. You look picture-perfect. I’ll take it on three. One, two, three.”

Click.

“Can I see?” he yells, scrambling toward me and clawing at my arm in that affectionate, guileless way kids have that makes them instantly feel like a friend.

“Here you go.” Tipping the screen, I show Jack his picture—the dark-wash jeans stretching down his knobby-kneed kid legs, his bright green and orange striped sweater.

Jack traces his hand along the screen, outlining his image. Over his short hair, down the line of his sweater and his jeans. “I love it.”

“Good.”

Jack smiles at me. “Thank you, Kate.”

“You’re welcome, Jack.” I stand and slip the camera off my neck, setting it in its case on the desk. “Can I email this to you? Would you like that, if I sent this to Mom and Dad?”

He nods. “Thank you! I’m gonna go get my journal now.” And then he runs off.

“Thanks for doing that,” Tia says warmly. “I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t take out a row of stationery.”

Which leaves me with Hugh, who offers a friendly smile. “That was nice of you,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t a bother.”

“Not at all. Kids are always fun to take pictures with. They don’t generally have all that internalized self-loathing adults do, so they aren’t harsh critics of what I show them.”

“In that case,” he says, “if you really don’t mind sending that photo, can I give you my email?”

“Absolutely.” I pull out my phone and start an email that I’ll save as a draft, then send when I can upload my photos from my camera to my laptop. “Ready when you are.”

“It’s ‘Hugh Lang’—all one word—‘at Verona Capital dot com.’ ”

I drop my phone. It lands with an ominousthwack. Verona Capital is Christopher’s company. “Sorry.” I stoop to pick it up, not the least surprised to see a big, fresh crack across the screen. “Did you say Verona Capital?”

“I did. Best place to work in the city. Your phone going to make it?” Hugh asks.

I blink at him. “Uh. Yeah. Wait, so you...” I bite my lip. “Would you mind explaining exactly what you do there? It’s a hedge fund, right?”

Hugh smiles. “Not your typical hedge fund, but yes. It’s ethical investing. Putting my clients’ money into avenues that promote social equity, environmental responsibility, and the like, while ensuring my clients see a healthy return.”

“And that’s... possible.”

He laughs. “It is. But it’s not easy. Or I should say it’s not as easy as dumping money anywhere the market indicates will make the highest profit for you, ethics be damned. But that’s why I like it—the challenge of finding initiatives and companies that not only fit our ethical requirements but promise excellent returns. It’s stressful, and it’s a high like no other, when you do it well. The higher-ups are adamant about work-life balance, so we don’t burn out. That’s why I’m here on a weekday with my family rather than at the office. I took a personal day that I really needed, and it was granted, no questions asked.”

I swallow roughly. Okay. So, fine. Christopher isn’t acompletelyevil capitalist. But he’s still definitely a capitalist.

With an amazing chest.

Who tangos like a fucking god.

And smells so damn good.

Gah, the inside of my brain is bumper cars this morning.

“Well, that’s great,” I force out. “I’ll be sure to send you this photo soon as I’m off work.”

“Look at those flowers,” Tia says, as she and Jack rejoin us, Jack bringing himself to a bouncing stop beside me. “Such a gorgeous bouquet.”

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