Page 21 of The Best Friend Experiment
“God, no,” he said as he licked hot sauce off his fingers in a way that made her feel like she was watching a porno. It was hard not to notice how long his fingers were, and what a great mouth he had. Or imagine how he’d look licking something other than his fingers. “My agent would freak if he could see me right now,” Dylan went on, shaking his head as he reached for another chicken wing. “He’s always on my case about everything I’m eating and drinking because he’s afraid I’ll get fat.”
“You? Fat? Never.”
Dylan had always been a skinny kid. No matter how much he ate, the calories had burned away. Especially back when he was running track.
He gestured at himself. “You think all this happens by itself? I have to work 24/7 to maintain this bod.”
“Well, you’re doing an excellent job. Congrats.”
He laughed like he was flattered, but she saw his cheeks pink just before he ducked his head. “Thanks?” He said it like someone who wasn’t used to receiving compliments. Which seemed weird, given how attractive he was and what he did for a living, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe all he ever heard were critiques of his appearance. Maybe that was what happened when you turned your looks into your job.
“Feel free to help me with this veggie pizza too,” she offered.
“I just might take you up on that.”
“Are you still a runner?” she asked as she watched him reach for a slice of veggie pizza.
“Yeah, but mostly on the treadmill these days. It’s part of my cardio. Thirty minutes on the treadmill four days a week, boxing intervals the other three, and bodybuilding five days a week.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of time in the gym.” Brooke had been to the gym on campus exactly two times, a year apart, during the first week of January. So much for New Year’s resolutions. Now she didn’t bother lying to herself and just embraced her sessile bivalve lifestyle.
“Like I said, it’s a 24/7 job looking like this.”
“You’re not overdoing it, are you? Are you sure you’re getting enough calories to maintain that activity level? I mean, not tonight, but in general?”
“I’ve got a nutritionist and a trainer working together to plan my program. Every calorie I consume is calculated to balance the calories I burn.”
“Yeah, but are they looking out for your health or just your physique?” she asked, frowning. “Seems like a lot of those celebrity trainers are quacks.”
Dylan shook his head, throwing her a sideways smile. “I’m not a celebrity, but thanks. And they’re both qualified professionals who are careful with their programming. I vetted them myself, so I can promise you they’re not quacks. Although I have encountered more than a few that were.”
Brooke realized it might sound like she was questioning his ability to take care of himself. She didn’t want to give him a complex with her mother-henning. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be second-guessing you. You know what you’re doing. I just worry about you. You hear so many stories about the modeling industry, and I don’t know if any of it’s true but it scares me sometimes to think of you mixed up with all of that.”
His eyes met hers and held. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’m not gonna get an eating disorder or get addicted to speed or anything like that.”
“That happens in your business though, right?” She couldn’t help fretting. Dylan triggered all her protective instincts.
“It happens some, but it’s not going to happen to me,” he said, soft and patient like he’d always been with her. He reached across the couch and squeezed her hand. “I promise. But it’s nice to know you care.”
Goose bumps shimmied up her arm as his calluses scraped over her knuckles. “Still sounds pretty miserable,” she said, squeezing his hand back. “I don’t know how you stand it.”
He let go and reached for another bottle of hot sauce. “It’s a living, I guess.” He squinted at the label, then shrugged and twisted it open. “I don’t know how you deal with whale barf or whatever—”
“Earwax.”
“Right. Earwax.” He gave a theatrical shudder as he coated another chicken wing in hot sauce. “Nasty. Who even knew whales had ears?”
Brooke smiled as she tipped back the last of her beer. “It’s a living, I guess.” It didn’t pay as well as Dylan’s chosen career, but she was doing what she’d always dreamed of doing. She wasn’t certain he could say the same thing.
“You know, I still haven’t seen this alleged cat of yours.” He tasted his hot sauce-doused chicken wing thoughtfully, like he was judging a Food Network competition show. “I’m starting to doubt you even have a cat. I think you might be making him up.”
“He exists,” Brooke assured him. “He’s just crouched in some secret hidey-hole waiting for you to fall asleep so he can sneak out and rub his face all over your shoes in the middle of the night.”
“Freaky,” Dylan said around a mouthful of chicken wing.
“That’s just how he rolls.”
“I’m gonna win him over before I leave here. I’m determined.”
