Holy crap, where had Matt come up with this stuff? Personal experience?
Una yanked open the door and practically skipped into the room. She stopped when she saw me on the bed. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Just taking a little cat nap,” I told her, pretending to stifle a yawn. “No big deal.”
“Good.” She took a seat on the bed, and I sat up, leaning against the headrest, using my body as a barrier between her and Matt’s very sexy book. She looked me over. “Seriously. Are you okay?” She pressed a hand to my forehead. “No fever.”
I knocked her arm away. “I’m fine. You woke me up.”
Una unlocked her phone and opened her Instagram app. “I wanted to show you this.” She handed me the phone.
I slipped on my glasses. Centered on the screen was the picture I had taken earlier today of the brownies I’d made for Matt. Across the top, in neon pink, was scrawled the word “Yummy!”
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“This is my Story,” Una said.
“What’s your story?”
She sighed and grabbed her phone back. “I’ll teach you about that another time. You should really learn to use Stories. It’d be a great tool for you to give cooking demonstrations or showcase recipes you like and what not… Anyway…” She showed me the screen again. “See that number down there?”
I grabbed the phone and squinted at the bottom left-hand corner. “Four thousand?”
“That’s how many people have viewed this.”
“Congratulations.” I handed her the phone back.
“Congratulations to you.” She tapped on the brownie picture. “Look how many likes you have.”
“Three hundred.” My eyebrows went up. “Wow.” I had no idea if three hundred likes were a lot in Instagram world, but the number sounded impressive to me.
“And about half of those people started following you.” Una grinned. “You’re on your way.”
I snatched the phone back from her and stared at it. Several hundred people had seen my photo and “liked” it. A feeling of pride bubbled up in my stomach. “I see why you like this social media stuff. It’s a bit of a rush.”
“It sure is.” She pressed on the little talk bubble below my picture. “And people are leaving comments. They’re making suggestions of recipes they’d like to see and leaving their own tips for making brownies. You’re creating a community.”
I watched as she scrolled through the comments. A few people had left messages with probable scams promising jobs that would net up to two thousand dollars an hour, but most of the messages were legit. “What now?” I asked.
“What’s next is to keep going,” she said. “Like I told you, you’re creating a community, a place for people to come and talk about food. Maybe go on your phone and reply to a few comments, show them you’re listening. Check out other accounts and like their photos. Follow a few people.” She turned off her phone. “For every post you create, make sure to like and comment on five other people’s photos.”
“This seems like a lot of work,” I said.
“It’s worth it,” she said. “Building something takes active effort. These new followers represent an opportunity to grow your reach.”
There was that word “opportunity” again.
“I like your suggestion,” I said, not wanting to fight her on this. “I’m a fan of concrete goals, and I think commenting on five other accounts for each of my posts is a good way to start.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. After you get that down, we’ll start working on your Stories.”
With her watchful eyes still on me, I dutifully picked up my phone and opened up my Instagram app. I clicked on one of the hashtags Una had instructed me to use in my post, #browniebliss, and I visited the first post that caught my attention—a pyramid of blondies. “These look delicious!” I wrote.
It wasn’t poetry, but it was something.
“Good start,” Una said before leaving me alone to keep hunting for posts on Instagram.
After I hit my target of four more comments, I set down my phone and retrieved the book from behind my pillow.
Matt’s words jumped out at me: penetrating, heaving, groaning, sweaty, slick, swollen.
This scene went far beyond what I was used to in my sweet romcoms and categorically outpaced anything I’d attempted in real life. He’d described in detail a ménage à trois, including several positions I’d never realized were possible by the laws of physics and biology.
A flush crept up my neck.
Earlier this afternoon, when Matt and I were sharing a scotch at his kitchen table, I’d been about to suggest taking our kiss to the next level. I had been seconds away from asking him to be my bang buddy before Jane came in with Gerald. But, based on the sex scene in his book, Matt was way too advanced for me. I’d probably bore the crap out of him.
I closed the book and hid it once again under my pillow. Better to keep things professional between the two of us. I was ready to try new things, but embarrassing myself in front of a hot, experienced man would not be one of them.
…
Matt
December 9th, eleven days before deadline
A crash sounded downstairs.
I tried to ignore it and focused instead on my laptop and the open manuscript file. I was working on the scene where Cassya, the youngest Bastyan sibling, is stuck on the ship with a fleet of pirates. There’s a storm brewing on the sea, and the boat is rocking, rocking, back and forth. Waves are crashing over the bow…the stern…some part of the ship. I’d look into that later.
The leader of the pirates, Captain Alyster, invites Cassya to his bunk for a parlay. He wants to discuss her brother, the new king, and how they can work something out to their mutual benefit. He pours her a drink, and the two of them sit across the table from each other. Cassya is wearing her long, wavy hair down, and Alyster notices that every time she smiles, it reaches each corner of her face—wrinkling her nose and her eyes, lighting up her entire being—
Crash!
I jumped up from my desk, imagining the commotion downstairs. A robber had broken in and Dani and Jane were trying to fight him off. Or there’d been an earthquake, which I missed because I was so focused on my writing, and now all of the pictures were falling off the walls. I did the only thing I could do and grabbed the stapler from my desk. Holding it aloft as a weapon, I headed downstairs to save the day.
In the living room, I found Dani balancing atop a three-legged kitchen stool—one meant for sitting, not standing—teetering precariously as she tried to affix a star to a Christmas tree I’d never seen before. On the ground below her were a number of broken glass ornaments. It looked like a glittery Christmastime war zone.