LITMIR.BIZ

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“What?”

      “I remembered you weren’t Daisy Connolly back then. Wasn’t your last name Harris? Morris?”

      “Harris.”

      There was a brief silence. “So you did marry.” It wasn’t a question.

      “Yes,” she said firmly.

      “And now?”

      “What do you mean, and now?” Why did he have to ask? What business was it of his?

      “Are you still … married?”

      What kind of question was that? Damn it. She wanted to lie. But she’d never been a good liar, and though her acquaintance with Alex hadn’t been long, it had been intense. She was sure he would be able to tell if she did.

      “I’m divorced.” She bit the words out.

      “Ah.”

      Which meant what? Never mind. She didn’t want to know. “Alex,” she said with all the patience she could muster. “I’m working.”

      “This is work.”

      “No. I told you, I’m not matchmaking for you.”

      “I got that. You don’t want what I want.” He parroted her sentiments back to her. “This is photography. Or are you going to turn me down for that, too?”

      She opened her mouth, wanting desperately to do exactly that. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her. “What sort of photography?” she said. “I do family stuff.”

      “And weddings. And bar mitzvahs. And some professional head shots. Some editorial. Recreation. Ice skating,” he added. “Frisbee in the park. Baseball games.” He ticked off half a dozen scenarios that were all shoots she had actually done.

      “How do you know that?”

      “You have a website,” he reminded her. “The internet is a wonderful thing.”

      Daisy, grinding her teeth, wasn’t so sure. Her fingers tapped an irritated staccato on the countertop. Outside Charlie was making vrooming noises as he pushed his cars around the patio. Any minute he’d slide open the door and want a snack. To prevent it, she latched the sliding door and got some crackers out of the cupboard and cheese from the refrigerator, preempting his demand. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

      “I need photos. An architectural journal is doing a piece on me and some of the work I’ve done. They’ve got photos of my projects from all over the world. Now they want some of me on one of the sites.” He paused. “They said they could send a photographer—”

      “Then let them.”

      “But I’d rather have you.”

      She wanted to say, Why? But she didn’t want to hear his answer. Besides, asking would open a whole new can of worms.

      “Not my line,” she said briskly as she slapped cheese between the crackers and made little sandwiches for Charlie.

      “You do editorial. I’ve seen magazine articles.”

      “Yes. But I don’t traipse all over the world. I work in the city.”

      “The building is in Brooklyn.” He gave her a second to digest that, then added, “I seem to remember you cross the river.”

      They had crossed the river together coming back from the wedding on Long Island. Daisy felt the walls closing in.

      “Yes, I cross the river. If I have time. I’m busy.”

      “Any time in the next two weeks,” he said smoothly. “And don’t tell me that every minute of your life is booked.”

      Daisy heard the challenge in his voice. It was just another way of saying, I don’t believe you’re really over me at all. You still want me. And now that you’re divorced you might not believe in that ridiculous “love at first sight” notion anymore. You might be glad for a roll in bed.

      And, if it weren’t for Charlie, heaven help her, she might.

      “Are you still there? Daisy?” he prompted when she didn’t reply.

      She drew a breath. “I might have something next week. Let me check.” It was the only way she could think of to prove to him—and to herself—that she wasn’t a weak-willed fool.

      She put the cracker sandwiches on a paper plate, flipped up the latch and slid open the door. Charlie looked up and, at the sight of the plate, grinned and jumped to his feet.

      Daisy put a finger to her lips to shush him before he could speak, grateful that she’d taught him almost since he could talk not to blurt things out where people on the phone could hear him. That way, she’d explained, he wouldn’t have to have a babysitter as often if she could take calls as if she were in her office when, in fact, she was at home.

      Charlie had learned quickly. Now he stuffed a cracker sandwich into his mouth, then carried the plate back to his trucks. For a moment, Daisy just watched him and felt her heart squeeze with love. Then quietly she slid the door shut and went to look at her appointment book.

      “Where in Brooklyn? What sort of photos?” she asked as she flipped through the pages of her day planner.

      “Park Slope.” Alex gave her the address. “It’s a pre-war building.”

      “I thought you were an architect. Don’t you design new buildings?”

      “Not this one. I built this one from the inside out. The outside is pretty much intact, except for the windows. I fixed the windows. The place was in really awful shape and the guy who owned it wanted it removed. He wanted me to put up a new building there. But when I got into it, I couldn’t see tearing it down. Structurally it was sound. And it had some really strong period architectural features. It fit the block, the surroundings. So I made him a deal. I bought it from him and he bought land a couple of miles away. Then I built him what he wanted there, and I kept this one for myself.”

      The eagerness and the satisfaction in his voice reminded her of when he’d talked about his hopes for his career. He’d already done some big projects for the company he’d worked for then. But those had been projects he’d been assigned, ones that had been the vision of someone else. Now it sounded like he had taken the reins and was making his own choices, his own decisions.

      “Are you your own boss now?” she asked, unable not to.

      “For the last five years.” He hesitated, then went on so smoothly she might have imagined the brief pause. “There was never going to be the perfect time to leave, so I just … jumped in.”

      “You like it?”

      “Couldn’t be happier,” he said. “What about you? You’ve obviously left the guy you were working for.”

      “Finn? Yes. And I like what I’m doing, too.”

      “You can tell me all about it—if you can see a way to work me into your schedule?”

      He made it sound very straightforward. A job. No more. No less. Maybe this really was all business.

      Daisy could almost—but not quite—forget the way he’d kissed her. Deliberately she shoved the thought away. “What sort of thing does the writer have in mind?” she asked. “What do they want to feature?”

      “Me,” Alex said ruefully. “Up-and-coming architect, blah, blah, blah. I designed a hospital wing—first one I’ve done—and it’s up for some award.”

      “That’s great.” And not surprising, really. She imagined that Alex would be good at whatever he did. “Where? Nearby?”

      “Upstate a ways. Same side of the river, though,” he added drily. “They used staff photos for that. They want ones of me and of the place in Brooklyn

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