camera to her computer. It took all the self-restraint she had not to pounce on him to lick that bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. Somehow, she managed to activate her tunnel vision and file her shots.
Her stomach gurgled a reminder she’d been ignoring it, right as she quit her editing software. Before she could shut her system down, a message from Tate pinged in.
She rolled her eyes and maximized the e-mail program.
Hey, I’ve got you slated to cover the NASCAR event tomorrow. I know how much you hate shooting sports, but the stringer who lives out there caught Strep. Check-in’s at two. Let me know if there are any problems.
She gave the monitor the finger and clicked the reply button.
I’m not on the schedule for tomorrow. I’ve never worked Sundays. I’ve got plans. Sorry .
She clicked send and stood, not really giving two shits what Tate’s response would be. He wouldn’t fire her. She realized that now.
“Curt, do you like plantains?”
He looked over at her and crossed his legs in the other direction from where they had been. “Never had ’em. Grew up on the typical Irish staples. When left to my own devices, I eat cereal.”
Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with him .
She’d never cooked for Tate. Never wanted to. The way she saw it, he was getting enough of her even without her slaving over a hot stove.
The computer she forgot to turn off pinged yet again. Her stomach growled louder. “Fuck.”
What sort of plans?
Her inclination was not to answer. It was none of Tate’s goddamned business what she was doing on her days off, not that she had many of those with the staffing cutbacks at the paper. Most of the photographers the paper used were stringers or freelancers working specific events. She was one of only two full-time photographers for the mid-sized paper and knew when she left, she probably wouldn’t be replaced. Tate would have to take up the slack.
Actually, Tate doing some work sounded like a great idea. He’d leave her in peace for the weekend.
Again, I’m sorry. I have an out-of-town guest. I hope you can find a substitute .
Leaving the machine on, she managed to get three bites of pizza into her gut and had started tracking toward a bored-looking Curt when that goddamned computer dinged again.
“Curt, I’m sorry. Just–”
Curt put up his hands. “All weekend, darlin’.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Right.”
Tate’s response:
Maria-Elena can tag along. That’s not a problem .
Erica growled and just barely suppressed the temptation to thrash her face against her wireless keyboard. She clicked reply one more time to input a terse, and hopefully final, response.
Not Maria-Elena. Not someone who can tag along. Perhaps give Dot Sheehan a buzz. She lives near the track and is open to contract work.
She clicked send and turned off the damned computer. Not that her non-response would actually deter him. If he got desperate, he’d drive up to see what she was up to.
Controlling jerk.
Curt made some space for her on the sofa inside the V of his legs, so she sank against him and fidgeted with the crust of her pizza.
The two of them together felt right. Good . It pained her that he was so aloof, but then she remembered she was pretending to be the same way. She needed to come clean, and soon, or he was going to wander away with her hating herself for not laying it all on the line when she had the chance.
She rolled over and tapped his chest. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you plan on staying in the US?”
“Why, you want to have me deported?” He grinned as he twirled a swath of her hair around his index finger.
“Ha ha. I’m just curious what your plans are. I mean, most students don’t come to the US thinking they’ll stay here, do they? Ireland’s not exactly the kind of place a person would run away from.”
Curt sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, rolling his
Her stomach gurgled a reminder she’d been ignoring it, right as she quit her editing software. Before she could shut her system down, a message from Tate pinged in.
She rolled her eyes and maximized the e-mail program.
Hey, I’ve got you slated to cover the NASCAR event tomorrow. I know how much you hate shooting sports, but the stringer who lives out there caught Strep. Check-in’s at two. Let me know if there are any problems.
She gave the monitor the finger and clicked the reply button.
I’m not on the schedule for tomorrow. I’ve never worked Sundays. I’ve got plans. Sorry .
She clicked send and stood, not really giving two shits what Tate’s response would be. He wouldn’t fire her. She realized that now.
“Curt, do you like plantains?”
He looked over at her and crossed his legs in the other direction from where they had been. “Never had ’em. Grew up on the typical Irish staples. When left to my own devices, I eat cereal.”
Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with him .
She’d never cooked for Tate. Never wanted to. The way she saw it, he was getting enough of her even without her slaving over a hot stove.
The computer she forgot to turn off pinged yet again. Her stomach growled louder. “Fuck.”
What sort of plans?
Her inclination was not to answer. It was none of Tate’s goddamned business what she was doing on her days off, not that she had many of those with the staffing cutbacks at the paper. Most of the photographers the paper used were stringers or freelancers working specific events. She was one of only two full-time photographers for the mid-sized paper and knew when she left, she probably wouldn’t be replaced. Tate would have to take up the slack.
Actually, Tate doing some work sounded like a great idea. He’d leave her in peace for the weekend.
Again, I’m sorry. I have an out-of-town guest. I hope you can find a substitute .
Leaving the machine on, she managed to get three bites of pizza into her gut and had started tracking toward a bored-looking Curt when that goddamned computer dinged again.
“Curt, I’m sorry. Just–”
Curt put up his hands. “All weekend, darlin’.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Right.”
Tate’s response:
Maria-Elena can tag along. That’s not a problem .
Erica growled and just barely suppressed the temptation to thrash her face against her wireless keyboard. She clicked reply one more time to input a terse, and hopefully final, response.
Not Maria-Elena. Not someone who can tag along. Perhaps give Dot Sheehan a buzz. She lives near the track and is open to contract work.
She clicked send and turned off the damned computer. Not that her non-response would actually deter him. If he got desperate, he’d drive up to see what she was up to.
Controlling jerk.
Curt made some space for her on the sofa inside the V of his legs, so she sank against him and fidgeted with the crust of her pizza.
The two of them together felt right. Good . It pained her that he was so aloof, but then she remembered she was pretending to be the same way. She needed to come clean, and soon, or he was going to wander away with her hating herself for not laying it all on the line when she had the chance.
She rolled over and tapped his chest. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you plan on staying in the US?”
“Why, you want to have me deported?” He grinned as he twirled a swath of her hair around his index finger.
“Ha ha. I’m just curious what your plans are. I mean, most students don’t come to the US thinking they’ll stay here, do they? Ireland’s not exactly the kind of place a person would run away from.”
Curt sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, rolling his
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