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“Tell me something. You seem uncomfortable talking about this DNA dating stuff.Why?”
“It’s not science. At least, it’s notseriousscience. It doesn’t help people the way my cancer researchcould.”
“So, then why do you want it sobadly?”
“Everything in this country takes money. Learning, living, suffering, dying. I need themoney.”
His confession eats at me in a different way than the anxiety in mygut.
I’ve never been great at doing what I shoulddo.
But I really shouldn’t be doingthis.
I take a long sip of my drink, studying him over the rim. “The interface needs work, but the possibilities areamazing.”
He cocks his head. “What are yousaying?”
“I’m saying I’ll help you sell thisapp.”
Conviction surges through me, and it’s the best feeling I’ve had all week. Especially when his expression fills withrelief.
I check my watch as we head out thedoor.
“At the risk of sounding ungrateful, how much should I budget for this top-shelf help?” We’re on the front sidewalk when heasks.
I search his expression. “It’s probono.”
“No. I’m paying you. I’m not a charitycase.”
“I didn’t say you were.” I lift my chin. “Consider it a favor for afriend.”
“You and Jake must be goodfriends.”
“Jake’s like mybrother.”
Wes steps closer to let other people pass us on the sidewalk. “So, it’s good you didn’t seehimnakedtoday.”
Stop.
Juststop.
An hour ago I would’ve done cartwheels to earn asmile.
Now, Wes Robinson is teasing me—unprompted—and I feel like I should be documenting this for the publicrecord.
“I didn’t seeyounaked today,” I toss back. “All the good bits werecovered.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, squinting into the sun. “All the goodbits?”
Oh. That’s definitely teasing, and it has my stomach fluttering in an entirely newway.
“My help isn’t entirely free,” I say, surprising myself. “I need an assistant. For Jake’s charitygala.”
He rubs a hand over his neck, back to grim Wes. “Text me thedetails.”
“Done.” The feeling of triumph is chased by anticipation at the prospect of seeing him at Jake’s party. “And don’t forget the tux, or you’re not getting in the door. No matter how good your absare.”
I can’t resist dragging a finger down those abs—which flex deliciously in surprise under his sweater—before I turn and start down thesidewalk.
