Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(43)

“Wait, a photojournalist? I have a brilliant idea.” Nick drops his sandwich and claps his hands together. “You should hire her to do the new company headshots.”

I blink at him, gently setting down Hugh’s phone. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Nick leans in, smiling. “You’ve been grumbling that they need to be updated. And you’re not wrong, Hugh’s creepy uncle goatee was rough—”

“Hey.” Hugh throws a chip at Nick’s head. “You leave me and my goatee alone. It was artistic.”

“It was not your best look, my friend.” Nick turns back to me. “Listen, I know you and Kate don’t get along, but—”

“Wait. You don’t?” Hugh frowns. “She seemed so friendly. What’s the problem?”

“A complicated multitude of ills,” I mutter.

“And who knows better what cures a multitude of ills than us?” Nick says. “Money.”

“With pretty much anyone else,” I tell him, “but not Kate.”

“So what does she value?” Hugh asks.

I try very hard to push away the memory of last night, her confession that she’s felt excluded, shut out, pushed away. It makes my chest ache.

“She just . . .” My throat feels thick. “She just wants to feel like she belongs.”

And I made her feel like she didn’t. Guilt sours my stomach. I push my food away.

“Hmm.” Hugh frowns thoughtfully. “Well, never thought I’d say it, but for once, I think Nick’s onto something, then.”

“Thanks,” Nick says, before he realizes the implications. “Hey.”

Hugh laughs. “I’m just messing with you, man. It’s a good idea and not your first.”

“Hiring her to do our photos?” I ask Hugh, turning it over. “Why is that a good idea?”

“You said she needs to feel like she belongs. So give her something to belong to. You want to smooth things over with her and let her feel like a part of your world—”

“But keep things distant,” I clarify.

He shrugs. “What better way than establishing a professional dynamic?”

I blink at Hugh. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Hey.” Nick smacks my arm. “It was my idea.”

“Pat yourself on the back, then, Lucentio. And wish me luck.” I stand, my chair scraping back. “Because I’ve got a business proposition to make.”





? FIFTEEN ?


    Kate


This is an IDGAF playlist and new clothes from the vintage shop kind of day. The silk top I’m wearing was probably originally a couple hundred bucks, with its smooth, invisible seams, the eccentric dark blue print against a steely gray background. I got it for six dollars when Bea and I went shopping on Sister Day. The sleek-soft fabric, the happy memory of our day together, wraps around me, soothing my raw nerves, which haven’t left me since last night.

I wander the Edgy Envelope with my camera around my neck, trying to keep my mind busy, snapping shots while a group of customers congregate around the Prurient Paper Collection, which is Bea’s work—hidden erotic designs in gorgeous abstract artwork.

“Excuse me!” one of them calls.

I lower the camera, swallowing a groan. After that shit show with Christopher last night, I’m not in a peopley mood. I’m not even technically here today to provide customer service. I’m just taking photos for the store’s website. But Bea’s off and Toni left a little bit ago to pick up lunch for us, so I’m the only employee on the floor right now.

I could call for Sula in back, but after how generous she’s been, offering me work, paying me under the table, I can handle a small group of customers even when I’m not in the best mood.

“Hi.” I let my camera drop around my neck. “Need something?”

The customer smiles slyly as I walk her way. “I’ve heard these have, like . . . sexy pictures in them, but I can’t figure any of them out.”

“Some of them are abstract,” I tell her. “Others are more overt. Like all art, it’s a matter of your perception. It’s open-ended.”

She sighs, glancing toward her friends. “Does it have to be so philosophical? I just want to send Lex a card with sixty-nine.”

“More like with feet,” another one quips.

“Shut up!” she says, swatting her friend with the card, as they all shriek in laughter.

I smell the booze on their breath, and this starts to make sense. They had a liquid lunch, or at least lunch with lots of cocktails. They’re all a little drunk and uninhibited.

“This one could be pegging, couldn’t it?” another one of them asks me, shoving the card my way.

Heat creeps up my neck as I stare at it. As much as I absolutely do not judge anyone for openly and freely talking about sex, I’ve never been able to relate to conversations like this. I know I’m a sexual person, but I don’t feel like I’m sexual how most people I know are.

I was raised without shame about sex or sexuality—my mother sat us down and talked frankly about how it worked, the healthiness of masturbation and birth control, our right to feel safe, and the necessity of continual, mutual consent. I’m enlightened about the fundamentals of sex, but I’m still deeply uncomfortable talking about them with strangers.