Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“I had a dog growing up,” I say impulsively, the words rolling out before I can even get control of them. “A shepherd mix. Rascal was a good boy. My best friend.”
“Is this going to be a sad story? Did someone take him away from you?”
“No,” I reassure her. “He was like…Donut. Not a Dachshund, but my shadow.”
She smiles warmly, instantly. “Donut’s a shadow dog for sure.”
I scratch my jaw. I don’t love sharing my stories. But I say the next thing anyway. “He was my uncle’s dog, but my uncle ignored the dog too. I trained him, Rascal. Taught him to shake, sit, stay, come. The dog felt like the only one I could rely on sometimes, you know?”
She meets my gaze with understanding in her eyes. “I do. I feel that way sometimes too about Donut. She’s been mine for a few years now, and she makes her loyalties clear. Which I love.” She takes a moment, then adds, “So I get it.”
“Yeah?” I ask, a little hopeful.
“Yes. I do.” There’s a pause, then a tilt of her head. “You taught yourself to cook because no one else would do it, right?”
“You’re exactly right.”
“I had a feeling. I had to…figure out a lot on my own too. My mom left when I was young. I’m only saying that so you know I can kind of understand.”
Ah, shit. That sucks. “I’m sorry.” And I don’t want to hog the parental trauma cards, but there’s something about Briar—the way she talks, how she shares—that almost makes me want to open up. She may be a teacher, but her style of teaching is actually to share, to listen, to connect. My chest tightens uncomfortably, but still I say, “I was raised by my aunt and uncle.” It’s uncomfortable to say, but it feels necessary. It’s also as far as I want to go right now. “Anyway, so that’s that.”
“That helps,” she says, meeting my gaze with a smile, the sentence unfinished but I’m pretty sure she means that helps me understand you.
It’s a good feeling—to be understood. But a dangerous one too. The kind that leads to closeness and that leads nowhere good. I gesture to the broken tripod again. “I don’t mind holding your phone. It’s what a good boyfriend would do.”
Her smile says I’m recused. “I appreciate it, but I get that it’s not your thing. The contest.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How do I even explain why I want to do it?
Since I do.
Truly, I do.
I hate when people treat women badly, like my uncle did to my aunt. Then my aunt treated me badly because shit rolls downhill. “Your ex tossed all your things out in garbage bags because he cheated on you. He tried to keep your cat. He stole your ideas. I’m offering to be your tripod. Just let me, Briar.”
She taps her chin playfully, as if considering it, then says, “Well, I suppose it is what an Instagram boyfriend would do.”
I laugh and that feels good too. She hands me the phone and tells me what to shoot as she finishes a vinyasa.
Ten minutes later, we’re done, and she pops up after a long, deep exhale that had me feeling connected to the earth and at peace in my body.
“How does it look?” She gestures to the phone.
I pretend to give it some serious thought, like an auteur would. “It could be better with a long establishing shot. Or maybe a crane shot if you’d like,” I deadpan.
She bumps her shoulder to mine.
That should not send tingles across my skin.
It should not.
But it does.
“Are you Christopher Nolan or something? Greta Gerwig?” she teases.
“For my next career I’ll be a director,” I say, then pause to shift gears. “I mean it, Briar. Let me know what else I can help with.” Running from her won’t do me any good. Hiding is for weaker men. “I would like to.”
“Thank you,” she says with a smile, but then her expression turns serious as she says my name. “Gavin. I’m sorry about last night.”
My brow furrows. “What about it?”
“I don’t want to have this hanging between us. I don’t want things to be awkward. So I’m just going to say it,” she says with a resolute nod. “I’m sorry if we kept you up.”
My face flames. She knows I ran off. She knows I heard her coming. She knows that’s why I left.
C’mon, poker face, do your thing. “It’s fine,” I grunt, trying to be tough and unaffected.
“Good. Because I’m grateful you’re letting me stay here, and I don’t want to be a rude roommate.”
“You’re not.” You’re sexy, and funny, and direct, and you don’t suffer fools.
“Thanks,” she says, then heads to the door with her dog, tossing me a look before she goes in—a long, lingering one that’s like a match to the kindling in me. The flames lick my skin, then burn hotter as she says, “You can direct me anytime.”