Page 154 of My Real Love Affair

I missed her. I missed everything about her. I missed seeing all her lotions and potions cluttering the bathroom counter. I missed that citrus scent that followed her in a delicious cloud.

If someone would have told me six months ago I would be what could only be described as “twitterpated,” I would have laughed in their faces.

But here I was, twitterpated.

I picked up my phone and didn’t even have to open social media to find what I needed to see. I’d been stalking her social media since we got back. She told me she was going to post a few pictures, but she was going to keep the bulk of our trip private.

She had posted some of the photos I’d taken of her in Tahiti. I smiled as I swiped through them. There were a few carefully curated shots that showed just enough to drive her followers wild with speculation. Her in that blue swimsuit with a sheer cover-up and oversized sunglasses, looking like old Hollywood glamour. Her at the vanity in our stateroom, putting on makeup, completely unaware I was photographing her. Her stretched out on the sun deck with a book, so absorbed in the story that she hadn’t noticed me watching.

The comments had exploded immediately.

The photos were candid. Real. They weren’t the ones she typically posted with the focus on her style or getting ready. When I took them, it wasn’t with the intention of everyone seeing them. It was for me. But when she saw the pictures, she got teary-eyed. She loved them and asked if she could post them. I liked that I did that for her. Like I was on the inside.

And clearly, the fact that the pictures were taken by someone else had not gone unnoticed.

The comments were very flattering. And suspicious. I loved it. And they loved the mystery. The romance.

Who took these photos?

Melody where are you and WHO ARE YOU WITH?

These photos are giving serious relationship vibes.

Girl you’re GLOWING.

She’d texted me screenshots of some of the wilder speculation, and we’d laughed about it together. But she hadn’t confirmed anything. She didn’t tag me or mention me. Just let people wonder. We agreed to keep our relationship to ourselves. Yes, it would get out eventually, but for now, it was our thing. We would decide when and how much we gave people.

“They’re some of my favorite photos of myself I’ve ever seen,” she’d told me over FaceTime last night. She’d been in her studiowith Cleo, catching up on content creation after a week away. “I look happy. Really happy.”

“You were happy.”

“I was. I am.” She’d smiled at the screen. “Thank you for taking them. For capturing that.”

“Thank you for letting me.”

I cherished those photos too. Had them saved on my phone, looked at them more than I probably should. They reminded me of what we had on that yacht. What we still had, even back in the chaos of real life.

But God, I missed her.

We’d been practically inseparable for a week, and now I’d barely seen her for two days. She was playing catch-up with work—content creation, engagement with her followers, meetings with potential collaborators. All the things that had been on hold while we were away.

I respected it. Loved her drive and passion. Loved that she took her career seriously and didn’t let our relationship consume her entire identity. But I also missed waking up with her.

So when Rodney texted asking if I wanted to grab a drink, I said yes. I needed to get out of my head for a bit.

I grabbed my keys and headed downstairs. The car I hired was waiting at the curb. It felt so strange to be going out because I didn’t want to. Normally, I would be thrilled to be heading out for some drinks because it always ended the same way—me getting laid.

I had zero desire to hook up with anyone.

We met at our usual spot. My jeans and button-down were adequate for the nonexistent dress code. Rodney was already there when I arrived, a beer in front of him and that dopey grin on his face that meant he’d probably already had two. Or three.

“There he is,” Rodney said as I slid into the booth across from him. “The world traveler. How was Tahiti?”

“Incredible.” I signaled the bartender for a whiskey. “Best week of my life.”

“Better than that weekend in Ibiza? Or that time we rented that villa in Cabo?”

“Better than all of it.”