Brown-Eyed Girl (Travises 4)

“Wait,” I protested as Sofia clicked on another link. “I was still reading.”

“I thought you weren’t interested,” she said impishly. “Here, look at this.” She found a Web page labeled “Houston’s Top Ten Eligible Bachelors.” The article featured a candid shot of Joe playing football on the beach with friends, his body sleek and hard-looking, muscular without being muscle-bound. The expanse of dark hair on his chest narrowed to a dark line that led to the waistband of his board shorts. It was a picture of unself-conscious masculinity, off-the-charts hot.

“Six foot one,” Sofia said, reading his stats. “Twenty-nine years old. Graduate of UT. A Leo. Photographer.”

“Cliché,” I said dismissively.

“Being a photographer is a cliché?”

“Not for an ordinary guy. But for a trust fund baby, it’s a total vanity job.”

“Who cares? Let’s see if he has a website.”

“Sofia, it’s time to stop fangirling over this guy and get some work done.”

A new voice entered the conversation as my assistant, Steven Cavanaugh, walked into the office. He was a good-looking man in his mid-twenties, blue-eyed and blond and lean. “Fangirling over who?” he asked.

Sofia replied before I was able. “Joe Travis,” she said. “One of the Travises. Avery just met him.”

Steven glanced at me with acute interest. “They did a story on him in CultureMap last year. He won a Key Art award for that movie poster.”

“What movie poster?”

“The one for the documentary about soldiers and military dogs.” Steven looked sardonic as he saw our mystified expressions. “I forgot the two of you only watch telenovelas. Joe Travis went to Afghanistan with the film crew as the stills photographer. They used one of his shots for the poster.” He smiled at my expression. “You should read the paper more often, Avery. It comes in handy on occasion.”

“That’s what I have you for,” I said.

Nothing escaped the intricate filing cabinet of Steven’s mind. I envied his near total recall of details such as where someone’s son had gone to college, or the name of their dog, or if they’d just had a birthday.

Among his many talents, Steven was an interior designer, a graphic design specialist, and a trained EMT. We had hired him immediately after starting Crosslin Event Design, and he had become so necessary to the business that I couldn’t imagine doing without him.

“He asked Avery out,” Sofia told Steven.

Giving me a dark glance, Steven asked, “What did you say?” At my silence, he turned to Sofia. “Don’t tell me she shut him down.”

“She shut him down,” Sofia said.

“Of course.” Steven’s tone was arid. “Avery would never waste her time with a rich, successful guy whose name would open any door in Houston.”

“Drop it,” I said curtly. “We’ve got work to do.”

“First I want to talk to you.” Steven glanced at Sofia. “Do me a favor and make sure they’ve started setting the reception tables.”

“Don’t order me around.”

“I wasn’t ordering, I was asking.”

“It didn’t sound like asking.”

“Please,” Steven said acidly. “Pretty please, Sofia, go to the reception tent and see if they’ve started setting the tables.”

Sofia left the room with a scowl.

I shook my head in exasperation. Sofia and Steven were cantankerous with each other, quick to take offense, slow to forgive, in a way that neither of them was with anyone else.

It hadn’t started off that way. When Steven had first been hired, he and Sofia had become fast friends. He was sophisticated and meticulously groomed and had such an acid wit that Sofia and I had automatically assumed he was gay. It had been three months before we had realized that he wasn’t.

“No, I’m straight,” he had said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“But… you went clothes shopping with me,” Sofia had protested.

“Because you asked me to.”

“I let you into the dressing room,” Sofia had continued, increasingly irate. “I tried on a dress in front of you. And you never said a word!”

“I said thank you.”

“You should have told me you weren’t gay!”

“I’m not gay.”

“It’s too late now,” Sofia had snapped.

Ever since then, my sunny-natured sister had found it difficult to muster anything more than the barest degree of politeness toward Steven. And he responded in kind, his barbed comments never failing to hit the target. Only my frequent interventions kept their conflict from escalating to an all-out war.

After Sofia left, Steven closed the office door for privacy. He leaned back against it and folded his arms as he contemplated me with an unreadable expression. “Really?” he eventually asked. “You’re really that insecure?”

“I’m not allowed to say no when a man asks me out?”

“When was the last time you said yes? When have you gone out for coffee, or drinks, or even had a non-work-related conversation with a guy?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“As your employee… you’re right, it isn’t. But at the moment I’m talking to you as a friend. You’re a healthy, attractive twenty-seven-year-old woman, and as far as I know, you haven’t been with anyone for over three years. For your own sake, whether it’s this guy or someone else, you need to get back in the game.”