“Their fresh salad rolls are on a whole other level,” he said, tilting his head back, his full lips parted, eyes aimed seductively at the camera.
“You know how I love other-level fresh salad rolls,” I said, arching my back and pressing into him, my own eyes half-closed.
We switched poses again, winding our bodies around one another’s while we continued to change expressions for the camera and chat in-between looks.
“Oh my god,” Ty said suddenly. “Have you been keeping up on Graham Forrester’s Tribune articles? Why am I even asking. Of course you have. You’re obsessed. And for good reason. That man is a dish. A yummy delicious dish I’d love to?—"
My hand slipped from where it was propped on my knee and I nearly stumbled.
Ty caught me without losing his own balance and kept talking, much to my dismay.
“That meet-poop article from a couple weeks ago? Girl, I nearly died I laughed so hard. Seriously. I choked on an almond. Anyways, that poor, gorgeous man and his sweet pup. Can you even imagine? People are so crazy these days.”
I smiled and nodded, pretending to concentrate on the directions we were being given by the photographer, my mind going to earlier this morning when I’d seen Graham on my walk after changing my usual route in an attempt at avoiding him. Unfortunately, he must’ve done the same thing.
For a moment we’d both just stood there staring at one another, neither of us seeming to know what to do next. When he’d looked down at his dog, I took the opportunity to get the hell out of there. I did not need people seeing us in close proximity on the street and putting two and two together.
I tuned back in to hear Ty recounting the article to the rest of the crew, cringing inside as he repeated some of the lines verbatim. I sounded like an ass and Graham, of course, the wounded hero of the story.
Jerk.
“Where do I find the article?” one of the assistants asked.
“The Brooklyn Tribune,” Ty said. “Lior turned me onto it last year. She was raving about it. And him. Check out his photo, honey. Yum.”
“He writes a great column,” I said, my voice flat as we were given the go-ahead to rest for a minute while the lighting was changed.
“I’ll bet that man has a great column,” Ty said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “I wouldn’t mind him doing an article on me. He could do some in-depth reporting.”
“Ty,” I said, laughing despite myself.
“You’ve seen him. That man is delicious. I wonder if he’s single…”
“Even if he is, I think he’s straight.”
“Lior. Why do you wish to wound me so?”
“Sorry, buddy.”
“I get it. You want him for yourself. I mean, he would be a step-up from all those other guys I’ve seen you out with. Clearly he’s smart. And funny. The two of you would look hot together. Not as hot as he and I would but, I’ll throw you a bone.”
“Ooh. Don’t tease me, Ty.”
“If only,” he said wistfully. “You’d be my perfect mate. You’re just missing an important piece of equipment.”
“Alas.”
Hours later, borrowed clothes returned and makeup scrubbed off, we said our goodbyes in the lobby of the hotel we’d been shooting in and I hurried home to get ready for a date I’d agreed to go on.
“Who is he?” Addie asked from the speaker on my phone, which I’d propped against the bathroom mirror while I did my makeup and hair.
She was recovering well, her mom, brother, and a few friends taking turns getting her groceries, cooking, and hanging out.
“Alex Clarke,” I said. “Clarke with an E.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“British author,” I said, leaning forward to apply a coat of mascara. “He wrote “Bound” and “The Night We Died”.
