Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(35)

The kid frowns up at me. “What’s on your neck?”

“What? Oh.” I peer down at my camera. “That’s a camera. I take pictures for my job.”

“I thought you sold journals for your job.”

That makes me laugh. “Guess I’m a jack-of-all-trades.”

“That’s my name. Jack. Not Jackie. He/him/his.” He offers his hand, and I take it.

“Nice to meet you, Jack Not Jackie. I’m Kate Not Katie. She/her/hers.”

Jack’s smile is pure joy. “Cool.”

His eyes dance to my camera, brightening with curiosity. “Can I take some pictures with your camera?”

“Sure.” I lift my camera off my neck and crouch, handing it to him. “This is a really valuable camera, so can you be super careful?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Frowning down at the camera, he taps a button, bringing the digital display to life. “You can see your pictures when you take them? Like a phone camera?”

“Yep, same deal. What do you want to take a picture of?”

He bites his lip and looks around, then settles on me. “You.”

I laugh, surprised. “Me?”

He nods, then without preamble, lifts the camera, and with that confidence I love in kids, snaps a picture. “Now can you take a picture of me?”

“Sure. So long as whoever takes care of you is okay with it.”

“We are,” a voice says, making me glance up. A gorgeous couple stands together, smiling our way. Jack is the perfect blend of them.

“I’m Hugh, Jack’s dad,” the man says. “And this is Jack’s mom, Tia.”

Tia waves.

I smile up at them. “Hi, Hugh and Tia.”

“Yay!” Jack yells. “C’mon, picture time!”

“Okay, Jack, where do you want to stand? Anywhere along this wall is good, so you won’t be backlit.”

He rushes over to the display, near the bouquet of flowers that were waiting for me when I got here. “How’s this?” he asks. “By the pretty flowers.”

“That’s perfect.”

Jack puffs up his chest proudly and smiles, hands on his hips. “This is my first picture with my new haircut.”

“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 ominous thwack. 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.”