I move to my right. Turn toward her. Cop my best I'm at the beach and I'm happy to be here pose.
She laughs. "Just… do your thing. Stare. Smile. Whatever inspires you."
"You sound like a photographer."
"I considered that." She moves closer. Stares at the viewfinder as she frames a picture. "But I like being inside, in a quiet room, by myself." Click.
"I get that."
"You choose to work with people."
"‘Cause it's fucking amazing."
"It is." She moves behind me. "You help people. I know you don't see it. But I do." Click.
"Thanks. You could—"
"You already won this round." Click. "I'm letting you set up that website. Stop gloating."
My chest warms. I stare at the bright blue sky. Follow the horizon south, past the Santa Monica pier, past the curve of Marina Del Rey, all the way to the smog of Long Beach Harbor. "I'm proud of you." The words aren't enough. I need more.
I need to touch her.
Hold her.
But not the way I want to congratulate the guys.
And not quite the way it was with Penny.
It's something else.
Something I want more of.
Something I can't have.
After an incredibly long photoshoot, Leighton convinces me to join her in the water.
She laugh-shrieks as a wave smacks into her stomach. Grabs my arms. Pulls me under the water with her.
We run around the beach forever.
Mostly, I stare out at the horizon.
She jumps around in the waves.
The Pacific Ocean is freezing, same as every summer.
But there's something about the cold water and the salty air.
Something familiar. Comfortable. Warm.
For the first time in forever, I want to stay somewhere besides work. I want to hang here with her. I want to hang with her, period.
Maybe that's enough of a reason to say yes.
To buy me six weeks—five now—of Leighton all the time.
This guy is gonna come to his senses. Realize she's amazing. Scoop her up.
Then she'll be his.
And not mine.
It doesn't matter how platonic we insist we are. Mystery Man isn't gonna be okay with me making her dinner, driving her home, spending the night on her couch.
Shit is gonna change.
The thought steals my oxygen.
It's as bad as the memory of Penny groaning Frank's name.
Worse even.
It bounces around my brain as we dry off, pack our stuff, drive back to Leighton's place.
A shower fails to wash it away.
It fills the room with the scent of her shampoo. Leaves me smelling of her. Like we slept in the same bed.
Like we fucked all goddamn night.
Orange light floods the tiny space as I pull the blinds. This is a nice apartment—all the touches of her are perfect—but it's tiny.
And without air conditioning.
I push the windows open. Let the breeze fill the room. We're far enough from the beach that it only barely smells of salt.
But that's enough that it doesn't smell of her coconut shampoo.
The shower turns off.
The blow-dryer turns on.
She's in that tiny bathroom. Changing—I'm sure into something tight. Doing her hair. Putting on her makeup.
It's too domestic.
Too familiar.
Too inviting.
I pull out my cell. Get lost in answering messages on Instagram. Mostly people asking about tattoos. A few damn, your new girl is hot "compliments."
She looks fucking amazing in that bikini.
And we look like we're about to fuck in half these pictures.
There's a heat there. A need. An urgency.
It's weird.
But right too.
Our latest post is drowning in likes and comments.
One from @P3nnyForYourThoughts.
I always thought you'd look good together.
Like hell.
I can see Penny's fake smile. The worry in her honey eyes. That look she's shooting Frank—the one she always shot me—does she have something I don't?
And it feels good.
It feeds that beast inside me.
But it's more than that.
It's knowing Leighton's plan is working.
Knowing it's me and Leighton driving her crazy.
Driving the whole fucking world crazy.
I must be out of my mind.
I want to do this.
I want to risk my friendship with the most important person in my life.
The blow-dryer turns off.
Leighton steps out of the bathroom in a tight grey dress. Her eyes light up as they find mine. "Does that mean what I think it does?"
"You really want to do this?"
"No, I keep asking because I hate the idea."
"You really want to make Mystery Man jealous?"
"That's a wordy nickname."
"How about Austin Powers?"
She laughs. "How about him?"
"He's an international man of mystery."
She looks at me funny. "You enjoy Austin Powers movies?"
"Who doesn't?"
"They're stupid."
"So's my younger brother."
"Aww, I can see you and Dean watching movies together as kids. I bet you were cute."
"Tell my mom that. She'll love you forever."
"She hates me."
"She hates everybody at Inked Hearts."
"Even Dean?"
"No. He's got some youngest kid advantage."
"She blames you for corrupting him."
"Ridiculous?"
"Maybe. He's more obvious about being a perv. But you… You've got that in you."
She has no fucking idea.
She moves toward me. "I guess we can call him Mr. Powers."
"Sure." I already hate him.
"Yes, I want to make Mr. Powers realize I exist. But I mostly want to help you." She offers her hand. "Let's make this official. Celebrate with dinner."
"I'll cook."
"I don't have food. We'll get street tacos. They're amazing."
"I grew up in SoCal—"
"In Beverly Hills."
"I know street tacos."
She wiggles her fingers. "Okay. You can pick the taco truck. Just agree. Officially. I'll take care of the rest."
"I get veto power on everything."
"You pay all our expenses."
I nod. I was always gonna insist. I make three times what she does. And I don't trust her to treat herself.
"How long do we keep this up?"
"Through the wedding."
She shakes her head. "Until a month after. Otherwise, it seems fake."
Fair enough. "I'm still finishing your website."
"I know."
"And asking you how it's going every day."
"I know."
"And offering you advice on every design question you have."
"Are you just giving me information I know?"
"I need you at the wedding. Even if Mr. Powers wants to snap you up first."
"I know."
"But I don't want shit to get weird."
Her cheeks flush. "Me too. We're adults. We'll discuss it like adults."