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came up in the list. Kincaid Matthews . One Kincaid in the entire company. Alongside was an extension number and his job title, ‘Freelance Photographer’. That got me all excited—thinking he might be a bit more than artistic.
    I pasted his name into a new mail and typed:
     
    Subject: Hi there
    Coffee man, new girl here.
    I’m lacking in black gold and I’m hoping…
     
    I nervously waited for a response, chewing my nail, pretending to absorb what was on the screen in front. I was so distracted thinking he wouldn’t mail back that I missed him sidle up to my desk, jar of coffee and mug in hand.
    When I saw his shadow standing behind me, I must have flushed a thousand shades of red. His scent invaded my nostrils again and just his presence made me wildly happy.
    When I dared to look up at him, he gestured without words that we head to the kitchen, grabbing my mug for me. Some of my colleagues sitting at the more populated side of the desk looked on as if what was happening was their latest news piece.
    Kincaid and I rocked up at the kitchen without any awkwardness, despite the silence between us. He busied himself cleaning my cup and making me a fresh coffee (yes!).
    “You’re a photographer, then?”
    “Yeah,” he nodded. “All my life.”
    I leered and decided, “You’re wet behind the ears. How is it you’re here, I mean… aren’t you too young to be a freelancer?”
    I wanted to know everything about the man. I was really hoping for an age above 26. Cougar was not a label I wanted for myself.
    He laughed lightly. “You’re a journo alright.”
    “Sorry, it’s just that… you’re the only one apart from Ash and Trev that I’ve spoken to here.”
    “You’ll make more friends, Chloe. This is only your first day,” he said to comfort me. “This place is just fast, and when you get up to speed, you’ll understand it then.”
    Though really, I didn’t understand. Didn’t think I ever would, either.
    Anyway, I was still wondering about his age…
    “Twenty-five?” I guessed, like the forward bint I was.
    He snickered, still busying himself in the formulation of hot, caffeine drinks.
    “Twenty-five in a few months,” he said, his American accent deepening. His cute smile crinkled the corners of his mouth and the way his cut cheekbones carried that blush made me instantly aroused.
    Twenty-four , I repeated inside my head. How had it only taken 24 years to perfect that heavy body, that sarcastic undertone, that magnetism he exhibited in treating me like a lady?
    “Shit, 24?” Oh my god. Suddenly the realistic (very small) portion of my brain was so disappointed. He was far too young for me. However, the revelation gave me the edge then. If we were never to be paired outside the workplace, we could be paired within. I could make an ally of him. A friend. “And already a freelancer?”
    “I like to keep the job interesting, you know? The image archive here is a big pull, it’s one of the most substantial in the world… I can dip my hand in, shutter time or not. Sure I get work in New York, but I need to escape sometimes, you know? Even if just for a while.”
    “Lucky you.”
    I knew exactly what he meant but I didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing. Where I came from, this—what I was doing with my life—was entirely alien to those back home. I’d clawed, scratched and scrambled for what I wanted out of life.
    “You must have some connections then, Cai?” The minute I said his name, I knew I liked it on my lips. Knew that it suited him and that I’d like to say it in other circumstances, in places other than at work.
    I’d dated normal, ordinary guys I suppose. Working-class geezers. Big, lumbering men. Muscles. Sweat. My type. Yet none of them kept my attention, for one reason or another.
    Just because I didn’t want marriage, babies, or to live with someone—didn’t mean I hadn’t had my pick. In fact sex was often the one thing that took my mind off the boxes and the