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“You look like a movie star,” I blurted.
“Clark—”
“Not Clark Gable, Rose,” I interrupted, exchanging an amused look with Max as I said to her, “he doesn’t have the ears for it.”
“What’s wrong with my ears?” he asked, feigning insecurity as he scrunched his eyebrows and touched his earlobes.
“They’re too small,” Larry yelled, still not removing his headphones.
“Hey, Rose,” I said, reaching for the phone that I’d conveniently placed beside my clutch on the entry table. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”
“Sure,” she said, and I could feel Max giving me a look. I knew this was a bizarre request—it wasn’t senior prom and we weren’t invited guests at the wedding we were crashing, for God’s sake—but hopefully he’d go along with it.
I turned around and stood beside him—wow, has he always been this tall?—and ran a hand over my hair as he reached out to scratch Karen’s and Joanne’s heads.
“Say cheese,” Rose said, holding my phone up to her eye.
“Cheeeese,” I said, and just as she took the picture, I wrapped both my arms around Max’s right bicep and leaned my head on his arm.
And smiled a big-ass smile.
“What are you doing?” Max asked, barely moving his lips as Rose took multiple shots.
“What,” I said, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about as I posed for the camera.
“Why do you want a picture like this?” he said, looking down at me.
“Of us dressed up?” I asked, blinking slowly like I was a wide-eyed dumbass.
“You know what I mean, Steinbeck.”
“Well, uh...” I tried to think of a reason why I’d want a picture of us like this.
“You obviously can’t think of a lie,” Max said, looking amused as we broke apart and I took back the phone from Rose. “So I’m going to assume you’re obsessed with me and wish to start a scrapbook.”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Absolutely not.”
I grabbed my bag, and as we exited the apartment and walked down the hall toward the elevator, Max said, “So if it’s not an obsession...?”
“Ugh, fine,” I sighed, pushing the down button when we reached the bank of elevator cars. “I wanted to get a picture with you to convince my boss I’m not a shitshow.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “How would that convince her, exactly?”
“Well,” I said, stepping into the elevator when the doors opened. “She’s worried about my work-life balance, and she basically said everyone in the office thinks I’m hung up on Stuart just because I’m ‘mean’ to him.”
“The air quotes make it hard to believe she’s wrong, for the record,” he said, pushing the button for the lobby. “Although it surprises me that you’d care what people think.”
“Oh, I don’t,” I said. “Butshedoes. And she’s the one who controls my potential promotion.”
“Ah. I see,” he said, putting his hands in his pant pockets.
“I thought if I could just post something on social media that makes it look like I have a personal life—and I won’t tag you, I promise—maybe that would help my antisocial image.”
Instead of commenting, he just looked at me. Notatme, exactly, but in my direction with his eyes narrowed, like wheels were turning in his head. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and it wasn’t until we stepped out that he said, “You can tag me.”
“I don’t have to—”
“Tag me,” he interrupted, looking like he’d made some kind of decision. “And we should take a few more photos while we’re at it.”
