That Magic Mischief by Susan Conley Page B

steel desk in the tiny airless room ticked and tocked loudly, and Annabelle briskly worked through the next twenty pages, and blinked as her eyes began to feel heavy, heavier, heaviest. God, this stuff was boring. Had she honestly thought it would be a good idea to take a gig that had to do with stocks and bonds? Was she that desperate to avoid going home? She turned a page, and groaned.
    The ‘fun’ section of the report should have been a relief: it was, mainly, pictures from all of the softball games and holiday parties … but wouldn’t you know it, wouldn’t you just
know
, there was Wilson, third from the right, grimacing into the camera at a recent charity art auction. Which was exactly the gallery in which the two had met.
    She examined the photograph as though she were sifting for fragments of a pot in an archaeological dig. Was he remembering? Was that why he was grimacing? Was he grimacing due to the power of nostalgia and regret that was surging through him? Or was he just annoyed that he had to be there at all? She closed her eyes and put her head down on the desk.
How can this be happening to me?
How many flippin’ banks were there in Manhattan?
Why
should she be the one to get this gig? How was she supposed to forget Wilson if he kept cropping up?
    She had met him at an art opening, a last-minute reviewing-bone thrown to her by Kelli. The gallery was downtown, so far downtown it was practically in Atlanta, and she could tell that its sole purpose was to sell over-priced art to clueless bankers and brokers. One of those clueless bankers was Wilson, who despite being, oh, more than a shade shorter than she, was handsome, and interested in her: he talked to her the whole time, and then asked her for her number
and then
actually called!
    So what if he’d liked the lame art, so what if she’d totally forgotten to make any notes and wrote the worst review ever written the next day. So what if he’d teased her several times about being a hack, and why wasn’t she writing The Great American novel? All she’d heard was
ka-ching!
A banker! All she’d seen was his fit build, the little crow’s feet by his eyes that crinkled when he smiled, his very expensive suit. All she’d felt was the yearning to be in a relationship — with him, of course! Not just any old relationship … right?
    The thought made her gasp, and then forget to breathe, and then start to feel a little light-headed.
I need some Rescue Remedy
, she thought, scrabbling though her bag. “What the — ” she whispered as she came up with a handful of Polaroids. “How did — ” she muttered as she flipped through them.
    They were from Kelli’s stupid dinner meeting thing, and there he was, that messy Irishman and his big goofy smile, grinning down the table, laughing over something that had been said. She sighed, remembering his laugh. He laughed at everything she said, which was, like, a dream of hers … oh, but maybe he was just an easy laugher? Maybe he just laughed at everything, even though he seemed to find her —
oh, whatever, Annabelle!
    She leafed through the images, and wondered about her reaction to this disgracefully disorganized Dub. She’d found out, in passing, only in passing of course, from Kelli, who’d been fairly forthcoming with information, that he was from Stoneybatter, a born and bred Northsider, whatever that signified. It wasn’t like she’d called Kelli or anything, Kelli had called
her
, already demanding copy and if she — Kelli — had mentioned Jamie Flynn casually, and expounded, perhaps with intent, then it was nothing to
her
— Annabelle.
    She tossed the pictures into the garbage can under the desk, and got back to work.

Chapter Eleven
    Hesitating outside of her apartment, Annabelle looked up and down the hall, and then pressed her ear against the door. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was hoping to hear, or better yet, not hear, but it seemed like a good idea and —
    “You left your radio