“He does look like he’s been photoshopped,” Nigel says.
“Fair enough.” I say. I’m in a good mood. I also can’t stop smiling.
Women like older men.
Her words, not mine.
I know she wasn’t exactly sober, but there was honesty in her words. While I’m not going to read too much into them, they were satisfying.
“So I’m thinking we get some villa shots,” he says and again, I’m lost.
“Villa?” I ask.
“Okay, not villa per se, but shots on your back porch. Or, better yet, we go to the beach. Ever since your little, unexpected publicity stunt, I’ve been getting contacted by companies that want to partner with you. Just this morning De Agua called me,” he says.
“The cologne company?” I ask.
“Yep. They want to make a new cologne inspired by you. I think they’re going to call it Depths of Dios Del Agua,” he grins.
“They’re comparing me to–”
“Adonis,” Nigel says with more excitement than I’m feeling. Not that cologne isn’t cool, but still.
“Sure,” I agree. At this point, turning down anything would be a bad move. After my last encounter with Jett, I am high on the idea of outshining him in every way. Normally I don’t give a fuck what these kids do or say. I just ignore them and do my thing. Normally they aren’t threatening to get between me and a girl either.
“So how’s the misses?” Nigel asks, ripping me out of my thoughts.
“We aren’t married,” I snap.
“Considering the waves this whole thing is making, you might as well be,” Nigel says.
I ignore everything he’s implying and answer the original question. “Things are good,” I say. “I really like her.”
“Like her?” he asks. “What is this middle school? Did you pass a note to Cal in class and have him give it to her during passing period? You need to be in love!”
“It’s a little premature for that, don’t you think?” I ask.
“In this industry, you could already have three kids and a golden retriever and the world wouldn’t think you were rushing it,” he says, and I let out a sigh.
“So does she still work for Sigma Magazine?” he asks. He is really putting me through it this morning. I know we need to talk work, but it would be nice to at least finish my coffee before we map out my life.
“As far as I know, yes,” I answer.
“Does she take photos of you?” he asks.
“Of course not. Why?” I snap.
“That’s a shame. If she was snapping photos of you candidly and turning them in, that would look even better,” he says, but I beg to differ.
“It’s bad enough that every time I walk out my door people are holding up their phones. I’d like to think my house could be a safe zone from that. Clocking out is a thing, you know.”
“Not for salary workers,” he says, brushing off everything I am telling him. “And God knows I pay you enough. Let her take some photos; nothing wild. Just like a sneak peek into the underwear god’s drawers sort of thing,” Nigel chuckles at his own quote-unquote cleverness.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, clearly not getting that I was being sarcastic. “A public statement would really ice the cake.”
“A public statement? Of what?” I ask.
