“Because I don’t know what I am supposed to say.”
“How about sorry for accusing her of trying to ruin your life?” he asks, and I set my fork down with a clamor.
“Cal. Someone took those photos,” I say.
“Of course,” he agrees casually.
“Someone at Sigma,” I say.
“But she’s not the only one that works for Sigma. Hell, you know as well as I do that the bosses of those magazines pit their photographers against each other. The only thing better than competition with other magazines is rivalry within a magazine. It’s a dirty business, you know this,” he says, taking a bite.
I pick my fork up and dig back into my salad. Yes, I do know. It’s disgusting how dirty it is.
“Can you think of anyone else who would take photos like that?” Natalie asks while bouncing Bentley.
I take in a breath and let it out, shaking my head. “That’s the thing. I don’t actually know any photographers. It’s not like they ever talk to the people they are snapping pics of.”
“Okay, so do you know anyone who would hire a photographer?” she asks. “To defame you.”
I strain to think of someone who would want to see my life fall apart, not just professionally, but my personal life too.
“Jett,” Cal says, and I snap my fingers.
“That’s what I was about to say,” I tell him, and Cal shakes his head.
“No, I mean Jett. He’s here. Eleven o’clock,” he says. I look up and sure enough, Jett is here. I swear, even at nearly four million, this city is too small, and he’s headed right for us.
“Well, if it isn’t the underwear world’s most single dad,” he grins.
“What do you want, Jett?” Cal snaps.
“So that’s the kid, huh?” he asks, looking down at Bentley, and heat rises in my chest like Godzilla. I sit up straight, and Cal holds out a hand to me to keep calm.
“Again, what do you want?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he grins, “I was just having lunch and saw you three, sorry four, and thought I’d say hello.”
“Hi. And goodbye,” Cal says, but of course Jett doesn’t walk away. He obviously came over here to get a jab in, and he’s not going to leave until it draws blood.
“I saw your recent photoshoot,” he says. And there it is. “Quite the set. Any idea who took them?”
“I have my suspicions,” I mutter, and I can feel Jett studying me.
“Wait. You don’t think it was Ashlyn, do you?” he asks with a grin.
“I don’t think there’s a point to this conversation anymore,” Cal warns, but Jett either doesn’t pick up on it or doesn’t care.
“Listen, even for a skilled photographer, that would be some fancy footwork. I’m thinking it had to have been someone else. Someone who knows your house well.”
Jett walks away, and Cal flips him off once his back is to us.
“He’s just trying to get under your skin,” Natalie says. “Just ignore him.”
Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done, but not because he got to me. I don’t care about Jett Navarro’s opinion enough tolet his words get to me. But there is one thing he said that I can’t help but wonder about.
Someone who knows your house well.
If it wasn’t Ashlyn, then whoever it was is someone who knows the layout. Someone who has been sneaking around long enough to know my patterns, the layout, and my routines. Someone who knows me. I don’t often get close enough to people to really get to know them. But unfortunately, in the industry I live in, that doesn’t mean someone hasn’t obsessed enough over my life to figure me out.
