Fair Play by Deirdre Martin

thoughtfully. Who was she kidding? There was no way she could concentrate with him watching her. She put the paper down on her desk.
    â€œI’ll be sure to share it with Janna,” she said. He smiled. She smiled. Then an awkward silence descended. Theresa, never good with uncertainty, rushed to fill the vacuum.
    â€œSo, you’re entering the family business?” she asked.
    Surprisingly, Reese seemed grateful for her interest. “I’m sure you could tell at the meeting this morning how enthused I am about it.”
    â€œYou don’t want to be a lawyer?”
    â€œThat is exactly what I’m saying.”
    â€œThen why are you?” Theresa wondered aloud.
    â€œWhy am I what?”
    â€œWhy are you a lawyer?”
    Reese sighed, leaning back in the chair as he wearily ran a hand through his hair. “Because that’s what good blue bloods do. They become politicians or lawyers.” He looked embarrassed, almost furtive, as he quietly confessed, “What I really wanted was to be a photographer.”
    â€œYou’re kidding. I wanted to be a writer,” Theresa blurted, wondering if that was the sort of thing you should confess up front to a virtual stranger who could possibly give you three beautiful, towheaded children and a summer house on the Cape. Well, hell, he’d just told her what his dream had been, right? The polite thing to do was reciprocate. She could see his interest was piqued.
    â€œSo why didn’t you pursue it?” he asked.
    Theresa shrugged, feeling self-conscious now. “I still write for myself. And PR allows me some creativity in terms of writing press releases, which I enjoy.” She cast around for the right words with which to explain why she wasn’t this month’s selection for Reading with Ripa. “But when I graduated from college, no one bothered to tell me there wouldn’t be a job waiting for me at The New Yorker .”
    Reese laughed appreciatively. “I hear you. The same people didn’t tell me that when you get a poli sci degree at Harvard, you don’t go on to become Ansel Adams. Or if you try, it’s certainly not going to provide you with a living wage.”
    Theresa scrunched up her nose. “Not a very fair world, is it?”
    â€œNo, it is not.” Curiosity informed his face. “What do you like to write?” Against her will, Theresa could feel her cheeks turning crimson.
    â€œI’ve embarrassed you,” Reese noted softly. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œNo, it’s all right,” Theresa hastily assured him. “It’s just been a long time since anyone has asked me about my writing. It caught me off guard.”
    â€œTell you what,” Reese proposed. “I’ll tell you what I like to photograph, and you tell me what you like to write.”
    â€œDeal.”
    They laughed together then, the easy laughter of two people who feel completely simpatico. God help me, Theresa thought. He’s handsome, artistic, smart . . . After swapping artistic confessions, another small, strained silence descended, but this time it was Reese who ended it. “I guess I should be going,” he said with what sounded to Theresa like reluctance.
    Give him your phone number. Now. Theresa’s brain urged action. But she remained frozen. Scared.
    Reese tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. “So, um, as my uncle said, if you and Janna have any questions, feel free to give us a call.” He fumbled for a card in the breast pocket of his blazer, a move Theresa found charmingly inept. “Here,” he said, handing it to her with a shrug. “Call anytime.”
    â€œI will. I mean, if I—we—have any questions.” Give him your damn number! her brain howled at her. She flashed a quick smile, glad he couldn’t read her thoughts, and showed him to the door.
    â€œCan you find your way out?”
    â€œI think