Page 3 of Something Unexpected
Beck’s phone buzzed on the bar. He leaned forward to check the screen and shook his head. “I’m gone a half a day and all hell breaks loose at the office.”
“Not going to answer it?”
“It can wait till tomorrow.”
“What is it you do that makes you such a popular man?”
“I’m in mergers and acquisitions.”
“Sounds fancy, but I have no idea what that actually means.”
“It varies. Some days my company helps companies around the same size consolidate and become one big powerhouse. Other days we help a powerful company take over a weaker one.”
“Does the smaller company want to be taken over?”
“Not always. There are friendly transactions and hostile ones. The one all the calls have been about tonight is not a friendly takeover.” He sipped his drink. “What do you do?”
“I make coffee table books.”
“Like the thick ones with travel photos or fashion through the years or whatever that people leave out?”
“One and the same.”
“So are you an author or a photographer?”
I shrugged. “Both, I guess. Though it still seems surreal that I can make a living doing something so much fun. I went to school for journalism with aspirations to be a writer. Photography was always my hobby, but now I write the copy and take the photos for my books.”
“How did you get into that?”
“After college, I queried an agent with hopes of selling a thriller novel I was writing. Back then, I had a blog for fun. I used to take photos of people living on the streets of New York, and underneath each one, I wrote a little story about the person. I had a link to it in the signature block of my email. The agent I’d sent the chapters to didn’t love the story, but she noticed the link to my blog and checked it out. She asked if I’d be interested in pitching a coffee-table-type book instead. I said sure, and over the next eight years I created twenty-five coffee table books about the people who live on the streets in different cities. Last year I started a new collection about graffiti and graffiti artists in different cities.”
“That sounds a hell of a lot more fun than mergers and acquisitions.”
I smiled. “I’m sure it is. I consider myself very lucky, career-wise. I make a good living doing something I love and get to travel all over the place. Plus, I’ve met some amazing people along the way, and I donate a percentage of all book sales to support housing for those who need it.”
Beck’s eyes roamed my face. “What are you trying to forget, Nora?”
It took me a second to realize what he meant. That’s what I’d told him I was trying to do with the Tinder guy. “Doesn’t everyone want to forget life once in a while?”
“Maybe.” He rubbed his bottom lip. “But usually there’s something in particular, like a difficult relationship, stress on the job, financial struggles, or family troubles.”
I traced my finger through the condensation on the bottom of my glass while Beck quietly waited for my response. I turned to face him. “Do you want to know why I like Tinder instead of meeting people in the supermarket or a bar?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easy to find men who are happy to make me forget, yet don’t care enough to askwhyall I want from them is sex.”
Beck tipped his glass to me before raising it to his lips. “Got it.”
As he drank, I noticed the chunky watch on his wrist—Audemars Piguet, not Rolex. I’d always felt the type of watch a man wears says a lot about him. Most men use a Rolex as a status symbol, showing off that they can afford to spend the price of a car to decorate their wrist. And they know others know it too, since it’s one of the world’s most popular luxury brands. On the other hand, Audemars Piguet is not particularly well known to a non-watch person, and it’s generally more expensive. Most men wear a Rolex for other people, but an Audemars Piguet is worn for yourself. Mr. Attitude moved up a notch in my book.
The second thing I often used to gauge a man was the drink he ordered. Beck’s glass had been full when I came back from the ladies’ room, so I wasn’t sure what the amber liquid was. I presumed some sort of whiskey.
“Is that scotch?” I motioned to the tumbler in front of him.
He held it out to me. “Whiskey. Would you like to taste it?”
“No, but I’m curious what kind it is.”