Page 77 of Cockpit
I turn to look where she points, and my breath hitches when I see Grayson walking by with Luke sitting atop his shoulders. Luke has a cone of cott
on candy from the farmers’ market in one hand while the other is resting on Grayson’s hat. Grayson has a hold of Luke’s feet so that his biceps flex with each step he takes.
“Oh.”
“Uh-huh,” Rissa says in that knowing tone that tells me that, if I were to look at her, she would see right through me to the fact that I’ve already slept with him. “Maybe you should start by getting a better picture of that man of yours for the site.”
I sigh dramatically. “He isn’t my man.”
“I know, but maybe if you do a photo shoot, you’ll get to spread oil all over that chest of his so those muscles of his shine better in the pictures, and then that would lead to some horizontal hallelujah with him.”
Rissa is just as bad as Zoey is.
I laugh. “You are seriously messed up.”
“You’re telling me you don’t want to see him shirtless and wet?”
I have.
“He doesn’t have to be shirtless to win the contest. Some women look for other attributes.”
“You just keep telling yourself that, and my Braden is going to win.”
“You and your Braden.” I roll my eyes.
“Then get a photo,” she says as she stands and moves toward her desk. “You could always put him into a sex coma and then snap a picture of him barely covered by the sheet. That would get him votes right quick.”
I start to refute her and then stop. “I know, I know. You’re just living vicariously through your fantasies of me.”
“You got it, girl.” She gives a glance out the window to where Grayson is no longer in view. “If you want to live vicariously through me—because let’s face it, everyone is jealous of my life—I can show you how to wear sweatpants and cook frozen freezer meals.” I snort. “See? I told you my life was glorious.”
“Divinely glorious.”
I drum my pen on my desk.
Why am I nervous about texting him?
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t taken the first step to call me? I’ve tried telling myself it is because Luke is always present. I can tell myself it’s because it was a one-off thing and he doesn’t want to talk to me.
I can’t deny it stings a little that I thought we had a great time and now we’re at radio silence.
As much as I want to overanalyze the situation, I do have a job to do. One that I told Rissa was already done. One that is more important than being worried about my hurt feelings after sleeping with the self-proclaimed pussy ninja.
Even that makes me smile. Being mopey and having a smile on my lips don’t go together well.
Why am I being such a chicken about this?
Type the text. Do my job. Think of Haute. Think of Dad. Think of greasing oil all over Grayson’s chest during a shoot.
I pick up my phone.
Me: Hi, Grayson. Voting is going well. For the next round, we’ll need to get some new photos, though. We are having them done for all the contestants.
I add that last part in response to his comment the last time we went through the picture conversation. But I don’t hit send. I stare at the screen, wanting to say so much more.
Thanks for the other night.
I want it to happen again.
