Follow Me Darkly (Follow Me #1) - Helen Hardt Page 0,6
media type.”
“I’m not, really, but people seem to want to know what I’m up to. Probably only because I’m richer than God, which still seems a little unreal to me. I’m definitely a self-made man. I wasn’t born into money like Addison and her sister.”
I’ve only met Addison’s fraternal twin, Apple, once. She’s the anti-Addison, into Zen, yoga, and the chakras, and wears only flowing Bohemian frocks.
“Anyway, I never really got out of the habit,” Braden says. “You on Instagram?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“What’s your handle?”
My cheeks warm. “@stormyskye15.”
His lips twitch. “Stormy? Why not sunny or blue? Or even cloudy?”
“Because I like stormy skies. They’re a lot more interesting than blue or sunny skies, don’t you think?” When I was growing up, stormy skies were often the norm. I took shelter from more than one tornado when I was a kid. Talk about feeling out of control.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I suppose I never thought about it. What’s interesting to you about them?”
My cheeks grow hotter. No one’s ever asked me about my profile name before. “The colors. The gray that turns almost to green. The cumulonimbus clouds that stretch for miles but are fluffy on top.”
“Cute,” he says.
Cute? Before I can decide whether I’m touched or insulted, he continues.
“Why fifteen?”
“Because fourteen was taken.”
He regards me for a moment, his expression seeming both puzzled and amused. “I’m tagging you.”
“On a photo of oysters?”
“Sure. We’re sharing them, so why not?”
My nerves jump. Being tagged with Braden Black is not something that was ever even a minuscule dot on the radar of my life. For a second, I worry that Addison will see the post, but then I remember she only follows ten people, and I’m not one of them. Is Braden? I doubt it, given she seems to detest him.
He puts his phone away and nods toward the oysters. “Ladies first.”
Should I slurp or use the little fork? If I use the fork, will I look like a novice? I finally decide on the fork because that’s how I always eat oysters. I never quite got the hang of slurping. I choose one of the smaller ones and squeeze a few drops of lemon juice on it. Then I scoop it expertly on the fork and into my mouth and take a sip of my martini. The martini was a good idea after all. It’s much better with oysters than Wild Turkey.
Mmm. Delicious.
“Just lemon?” Braden says.
I swallow. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“I like a little cocktail sauce.”
“Amateur,” I say before I realize the word came out of my mouth.
He regards me, his eyes hypnotic. “We’ll see who the amateur is by the time this night is over.”
Chapter Four
My heart thumps wildly. The innuendo isn’t lost on me.
Cory comes back to take our dinner orders. I flash back to an employment interview workshop in high school. “Order the fish of the day, broiled,” the teacher said. “If you’re nervous and you drop some on your clothing, it won’t leave a stain.”
Union Oyster House doesn’t have a “fish of the day,” so I decide on the pan-seared haddock with mashed potatoes and fresh vegetables. Nothing to get me in too much trouble there.
Braden orders fried oysters. He wasn’t lying when he said he was in the mood for them.
“Do you enjoy your job, Skye?”
I’m about to answer when my phone dings. I quickly grab it out of my purse. It’s blowing up with notifications.
“Congratulations,” Braden says. “You’re famous.”
Because he tagged me in the post of the oysters, I’m being notified every time someone makes a comment.
“Turn off notifications,” he says, “or it’ll drive you bananas.”
I follow his advice and then tuck the phone back in my purse. Wow. A few people know I’m Addison’s assistant, but this is ridiculous.
“You going to answer my question?”
“Sure. What question?”
“Do you enjoy your job?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning…?”
“I get to take pictures, which is what I love to do, but I’m not exactly photographing anything significant.”
“Addie trying on scarves isn’t going to make it into National Geographic,” he says. “You’re right about that.”
I warm a little. Is he making fun of me? Plus, how did he know that having a photo in National Geographic is my dream? Ever since I saw that gorgeous photo of the Afghani girl with the searing green eyes in a book of magazine photographs, I’ve wanted to capture something that profound.
“I’m making good contacts.”
“That’s true. Maybe you can become the official photographer for Bean There Done That. Getting those sprinkles of nutmeg just right on cappuccinos.”