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“Oh, I could,” she cooed. Then, abruptly more businesslike, she said, “But let’s get to know each other a little first. Tell me where you get your inspiration.”

He felt a sense of relief that she seemed willing to move on. And so he answered more generously than he might have, since he found the question annoying. “Every and anywhere. But as I said, I work for the people who commission the work. It’s what they want that counts, what speaks to them that I try to deliver.”

“How do you determine that?” It was the first time the photographer had spoken since they’d sat down. And she immediately looked at Jillian apologetically. “Sorry, Jillian. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Ry glanced at her, frowning. She felt she had to apologize for a simple question? And a question he didn’t mind, something concrete and logical, not the esoteric kind about inspiration and vision. She flicked a look at him but quickly looked away, and he thought he saw her cheeks color slightly.

“You’re forgiven,” Jillian said to her, with a smile that at least seemed genuine. Then she turned back to him. “And given what you said, it is an interesting subject. How do you determine what, as you say, speaks to them?”

“Only one way,” he said. “Spend time with them. Ask questions.”

“So…you interview your clients?”

“In a way, I guess,” he said, a little surprised at the accuracy of the question.

“Do you have a set list of questions for everyone, or do you tailor it to each individual?”

Okay, that was two decent, reasonable questions. He should have known she didn’t get to where she was by being stupid. “I start out with a list, although it’s not written anywhere, it’s just built on experience.”

“What’s the first question you ask?”

“What they’re doing next weekend.”

The woman gave him a puzzled look. He wasn’t sure why, but he glanced at the photographer. And saw complete understanding in her expression, in those dark eyes. She got it, all right. How what a person did in their time off spoke of what mattered to them. What they put first in their life, after their work.

He found himself wondering what she put first when Jillian spoke again. “What if they tell you they’re not doing anything?”

Another good one. Okay, maybe he’d misjudged. “Depends on how they say it. With boredom, or relish.”

“And if it’s boredom?”

“I focus on their work, whatever it is they do, since apparently they put their all into it.”

“And if it’s relish, what’s your next question?”

“I ask them what they’d be doing if they could have any job in the world.”

She seemed intrigued now. And her next questions were, he had to admit, intelligent. Probing without being invasive. Well, not too invasive. His mother had warned him he was going to find most of this invasive, him being who he was.

“We accept who and how you are because we know and love you,” she’d said. “But a reporter who makes her living prying into people is a different kettle of fish.”

He remembered smiling at the phrase, knowing she’d picked it up from his father.

Well that’s a fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten yourself into, Rylan.

I’ll fix it, Dad. I promise.

A man’s only worth the promises he keeps, son. Make sure you keep them.

And he had kept that one. He’d taken the vase he’d broken, one of his mother’s favorite things, to the workbench his father had set up for him even at age ten, and spent three days after school putting it back together as best he could.

He tried to keep any promise he made, aided by the tactic of not making many. But he had made this one, to do this interview, and so he tried for cooperation while at the same time being very careful about what he said; some of his clients were, as she’d said, famous. He was sure they wouldn’t appreciate him blabbing things that might have been said in confidence.

But the questions now didn’t seem particularly high-pressure, and he was just thinking he might get through this when a dramatic, almost operatic ring drew Jillian’s attention. She pulled out a phone in a jeweled case and looked at the screen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “I do have to take this. Kaitlyn, why don’t you get started while I do?”

“If Mr. Rafferty—Ry—is willing,” the photographer said.