“You’ll miss the sea.”

When I had told my family I was leaving Ireland to go to DeVry University in America, that was the first thing my dad said. He was right. I did miss it, but as much as I loved my seaside place of birth, I’d found a home here in New York City. A permanent home, I hoped.

I could only hope this new job would allow me to stay here. I had no more desire to live in Ireland and join my family’s whiskey business than I did when I’d left five years ago. While I loved my family, I couldn’t deny that it was freeing not being known as the baby of the McNiven eight.

The problem was, I needed a full-time job to be able to transfer from a temporary visa to a permanent, but I didn’t have any better idea of what I wanted to do with my business administration degree than I did the day I had declared my major. It seemed like a solid choice at the time, the sort of thing that would provide for me financially while I found my passion. Instead, I’d spent the last year working as a temp at a variety of jobs around Manhattan.

I had done well as a temp. I worked hard, gave a hundred percent, and it rarely took me long to learn the various tasks. On top of that, I was easy to get along with. More or less. I wasn’t the type of woman who intimidated other women or sparked jealousy. Most looked at me as a little sister, especially since I barely looked eighteen, much less twenty-three. That meant I could navigate through the petty spats that often dragged down newcomers. I made sure I was polite and added to small talk when appropriate, but I never did inane chatting that interfered with my work.

More than one employer had told me they wished they were able to hire me permanently. I’d always appreciated the compliment as I walked out the door for the last time.

I’d never mind moving from place to place, but after a year of bouncing around, I was looking forward to a change of pace.

And today was the day. Everything could change for the better.

As I stood outside the Chelsea studio of my new employer, I said a quick prayer to St. Cajetan and took a deep breath. I didn’t consider myself a religious person, but Mam was devout, so all us kids had been baptized into the church. I hoped that carried some weight with the patron saint of jobs, even if I didn’t completely believe in all that.

I needed all the help I could get.

I knocked on the door and ran through everything I knew about my new job while I waited. It wasn’t much.

On Friday, I’d been called into the agency for an interview with a woman named Jean Holloman. She was an agent looking for an assistant to a photographer she represented, and I’d been recommended for the position. Ms. Holloman hadn’t said why or by who, but I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After a brief chat, she’d given me this address and ordered me to be there at nine o’clock sharp. I'd be working for Alix Wexler.

The way she said his name made me think that she assumed I knew who he was. I hadn’t bothered to tell her otherwise. If this position meant I didn’t have to start looking for another roommate – or another apartment – or a plane ticket back to Ireland – Mr. Wexler could be an abhartach, and I would still have accepted the job.

The door opened, and I heard a voice telling me to come inside, but whoever it was had already moved back into the shadows. I followed, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the bright June sun to the dimmer interior of the studio. I could see the outline of a man, over a foot taller than my own barely five-foot frame, but wasn’t able to make out the details until I followed him into a large, open space filled with natural light.

Messy dark brown hair, and a chiseled jaw any sculpture would have loved. When he turned to face me, my stomach did a flip. His features and build were attractive enough that I was sure he turned heads wherever he went, but it was those eyes that made me catch my breath. I’d never seen irises quite that color before. They were gray, but not a washed out blue, but rather the thicker, darker color I associated with smoke curling up from a chimney on a cold day.

“You’re my new assistant, right?” His voice was clipped, but he didn’t seem to be angry as much as distracted.

I tried not to be offended. I wasn’t here for a date or for a business meeting. He was my new boss. He could be as distracted as he wanted. I’d get paid either way.

“Yes, sir. I’m Sine McNiven.”

That got his attention, though I wasn’t sure if it was my accent or my name. His gaze swept over me, and I got the impression that it was the first time he actually saw me. I did my best not to fidget.

“You want to give me that one again?”

I tempered my grin. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking I was laughing at him. “S-I-N-E, but it’s pronounced SHEE-na. Rhymes with Tina.”

“And you’re old enough to be my assistant?”

Not the first time I’d heard that question in some form or another. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to ask a woman her age?” I smiled as I added, “But I’m twenty-three.”

“Are you now?” He raised an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”

I was tempted to say Queens, but I knew what he meant. “Balbriggan.” When he raised the second eyebrow, I added, “Ireland.”

He looked like he was debating whether or not to ask anything else, then he shrugged. “Follow me.”

I looked around as he started walking toward the back of the studio. Mrs. Holloman had told me that he was a photographer, but not how talented he was. If he was the one who'd taken the pictures hanging on the walls, he had talent. I wasn’t an expert, but even I could tell these were good. I didn’t offer my opinion though, not knowing Mr. Wexler well enough to know how he’d take it. Artists could be mercurial.

“This is your office.” He pushed open the door and stepped out of the way to let me inside. “Feel free to spend today getting it organized.”

“Is there anything you need me to do today?” I asked.

“Jean’s the one who thinks I need an assistant,” he said, and I could almost feel him roll his eyes. “I just didn’t feel like arguing.”

I watched as he walked away and reminded myself again that artists were often temperamental, and that indifferent was far better than angry. Besides, I’d grown up with six brothers. I could handle one moody man.