Page 159 of A Matter of Time

“Oh, thank you, sir.” She smiled at me, taking my hand and tugging me into the living room. “How ’bout a very strong margarita?”

“Okay.” I grinned at her, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “I love your face.”

I watched her tremble under my hand; as always, a grateful recipient of my attention. She wore her adoration of me on her sleeve, exactly where I showed off mine for her. “Well, I like yours a little bit too, ya know?”

We shared a long look before there was throat-clearing close by. We both turned to the man smiling at us.

“You’ve gotta be Jory.” His smile widened as he extended his hand. “I’m Chris, her husband.”

I took the hand and returned the smile. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“And you.” He nodded, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “She talks about you every day.”

“Sorry,” I said, grimacing. “No one likes to hear my stories about her either. She’s so dull, and their eyes glaze over, just like yours I bet.”

“What?” Her dark scowl was adorable.

“No.” He chuckled. “It’s good, really. She loves working with you.”

I wrapped my arms around her neck and pressed against her back. “Well, it goes both ways.”

They were listening to oldies, and when a new song started, she drew me away from her husband to the area behind the couch. I took her into my arms, and she put her head on my shoulder and leaned. As I moved, I heard her sigh, and she melted against me. When the song ended and I dipped her low, the room erupted in applause.

My head snapped up, and I realized there were seven other people there besides us.

“Everybody,” she began as she looked at all of them upside down, “this is my partner in crime, my work husband, Jory.”

I smiled and she giggled. When I looked down at her, she was staring up into my face. “Let me up so you can meet my friends.”

As soon as I set her on her feet, she grabbed the front of my sweater and pulled me around to the center of the group next to the coffee table. There was a board game set up. I didn’t groan out loud, which I was very proud of.

Her friends were very nice, and when I was asked what it was like to have Dylan Greer as a partner, I leaned on her and said that from the moment we were introduced, it had been heaven. When she turned to look at me, I smiled wide. Her hand was on my cheek, and I heard the laughter around us.

My interview with first David O’Shea, and then his boss, Philip Torres, at Barrington had gone way better than good. He’d needed a graphic designer, but he needed one who could work with a partner to develop branding for new clients. No lone wolves—he wanted a team. We had to create logos, develop artwork, and create print material. I was assigned to the production department after I was hired, starting at the bottom of the barrel with someone from concept design. We worked together after sitting in on a client meeting and came up with something iconic for them to look at. It was usually a group setting, where the client was introduced to everyone. There were four teams that did this part of the PR process at Barrington, and we were one of them. It was when I was being walked through the department on the Tuesday after I’d been hired that I had caught my first glimpse of Dylan Greer.

She had been sitting at her desk alone, and everyone else in the production room was clustered around another desk talking to one another. Tony Ortiz, who had been my tour guide, led me over to her desk. He’d knocked on it to get her attention, as she was face down on the drafting table. She’d rolled her head instead of sitting up, and his exasperated sigh was not to be missed.

“Greer, this is Harcourt,” he grumbled at her. “Your new partner. Try not to run this one off.”

And with that he squeezed my shoulder, gave me a wan smile, and left. He had given me the good-luck speech on the way down. Apparently, Dylan was extremely gifted, even more moody, and sometimes violent. Her last partner had gotten a stapler launched at his head. He hadn’t quit, however, until she’d laughed at him, long and hard and loud, in the middle of a client meeting. The only reason she was still there and hadn’t been instantly fired was that the client had thought the idea just as ridiculous as she had. When she had walked her own sketches up to the table and explained her intent, the client had agreed to the concept on the spot. She was, after all, brilliant…but manic. I’d liked her instantly.

As she’d lifted her head off the table and looked into my eyes, I’d arched a brow for her. The smile was adorable. Her tiny little heart-shaped mouth and huge black eyes made her look like a character from a graphic novel—some lovely piece of manga. The porcelain skin and jet-black, midnight-blue-highlighted hair added to the impression.

“You don’t look like a Greer,” I said to her.

“Do I look like an Okamoto?” she asked crisply.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a Harcourt,” she volleyed back. “It’s kinda snooty.”

I shrugged. No one new in my life would ever know that I wasn’t born a Harcourt. Jory Keyes was dead, and he wasn’t coming back, even for an explanation. “Well, I am kind of stuck-up. You know the type: conceited asshole.”

She eyed me hard. “You look okay to me.”

I smiled wide. “You look okay to me too.”

She offered me her hand. “Call me Dyl.”