hates being outside when he can see people inside.”
“I hate dogs,” Mom says, making a face. “They pee on things.”
“He’s house-trained. Mostly.”
“Nope. He’s not coming inside. Why are you here?”
“Trying to tell you,” he says, sliding something across the counter.
She frowns. “What is this?”
“Looks like cash,” he says. “A hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact.”
Mother of God.
“Hi, uh. Hi. H-hi,” I say in the most awkward way possible, sliding around the side of the counter. A tiny earthquake shakes me from the inside out at the sight of his long black lashes and the playful swoop of his hair. I’m not prepared for this. I can’t see him here—not in front of my mom. She’s going to know something happened between us. Isn’t it obvious? Every molecule in my body remembers. They’re practically shouting.
LUCKY. LUCKY. LUCKY.
I’ve got a tangle of weird emotions about why he hasn’t texted me, and I’m very panicked right now, but …
But I still want him.
The worst part is that he knows. He sees it all over my face, the wanting, and he lights up like a city skyscraper at midnight.
His scarred eyebrow lifts. And oh, the evil look behind his eyes. In the history of the world, no one has smirked like he’s smirking. This smirk of his is sly. It’s full of knowing. It says, Why yes, I kissed your face off, and we both know it was damn good, but here I am, turning the tables on you. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
Dead. Me. Go ahead and call an ambulance, because I’m going to have a heart attack right now, right here. Goodbye.
“Good afternoon,” he says, like he’s a Jehovah’s Witness, come to save my soul with a pamphlet and a smile. “I was just asking your mother here about hiring out your services.”
“Were you, really?”
“I was, yes. Need a photographer.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep.”
“Quick job. Need some photos of the boatyard.”
“The boatyard.”
“The front window, back bays. The crane. The docks.”
Bean the Magic Pup sees me and scratches at the glass on our door to come inside, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“Why?” Mom asks.
Lucky lifts his face to hers. “We just got the new window put in, and the trim and paint is different. You may have noticed.”
We both stare at him.
“Anyway,” he continues, “My parents want to update our website photo of the front of the business. So might as well update the others while we’re at it. We’ve just got standard phone photos up there now. Would be nice to have more professional shots. If that was something Josie could do?”
“Of course she could,” Mom says, like he just insulted both of us. Like it was a challenge, and she just fell for it.
Wait a minute. She’s actually buying into his scheme? Correction: my scheme. Because I thought of it first. I think I’m actually a little miffed at him now. I don’t care how pretty he is, or how much I want to stick my hands deep inside his leather jacket. Why is he even wearing that thing? It’s hot outside, for the love of Pete.
“She’s really good,” she tells him. “Don’t know if you’ve seen her work online, but she has a website you can browse. One of those subscriber things?”
“Mom,” I say weakly. Ambulance. 911. Emergency. Dying.
“Yes, I have seen it,” he says, suppressing a smile as I discreetly try to step on the toe of his boot. It’s got some kind of reinforced steel thing inside it. Won’t budge. He shifts his boot to the side and says, “All the sign photos. Really cool.”
Mom crosses her arms and nods. “It is really cool. She’s got a good eye. But as for this job … It’s for your parents?”
“It is,” he says.
“They know about it?”
“They do. You want to call my mom?”
She doesn’t answer. Just considers it for a moment while she shifts on the squeaky chair and says, “Suppose it’s up to Josie, not me.”
I blink at her. I blink at him.
“I’ve got work here in the Nook right now,” I tell him.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m on a break. Just finished up at the department store, and I’m about to start a shift with my dad. It would probably be better to do the photography after the boatyard’s closed, so you wouldn’t have everyone in the way. And isn’t there something about the light being better right before twilight … ?”
“Golden hour,” I say, smiling tightly. You bastard.