I shrug. “Sure, I guess so.” I figured it was sort of common sense. If it’s a big enough resort, there may be first aid or a medic on staff, and if not, you go to an urgent care or hospital.
“Maybe I should do a quick check-in on my stories with this.” She pulls open her purse and grabs a compact, and she checks her makeup. I watch as she applies some stuff to her face, other stuff to her eyes, and some gloss on her lips.
“Good as new,” she says, smacking her lips together.
“You didn’t need it,” I say softly.
Her brows crinkle together. “Uh, yeah, I did. I think I either cried or sweated off most of my makeup from this morning between climbing up those steps, rolling my ankle, and then, you know…on the bus.”
I raise a brow, surprised she’s bringing it up. I sidestep it by saying, “I like you unfiltered.”
She snort-laughs, and it’s actually quite cute. It’s also probably another thing she’d edit out of a polished video, but I like her like this.
Raw. Messy. Real.
“Yeah, well, the rest of the world doesn’t want to see it,” she mutters.
“Why not?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I guess I just feel more like myself when everything’s in place.”
I tilt my head a little as I study her. “Is that really it? Because for someone who’s so adamant that what she does matters, you sure put on a façade when you hit record.”
“Wanting to look my best isn’t a façade. It’s called being professional,” she says.
“Whatever you say.”
“God, you’re impossible.” She sighs. “Maybe we just sit here quietly while we wait for the medical people to show up.”
I chuckle.
“Or…” she begins, drawing out the word.
“Or what?”
“You could finish what you started on the bus.”
“So you don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to give you an orgasm?” I ask, a bit confused by that.
“Have you ever had hate sex?” she asks.
My mouth goes dry. “Can’t say that I have.”
She raises her brows as if to say, “Well?”
“One problem, Monroe,” I say.
“Just one, Bradley?”
“I don’t hate you.” I press my lips together after I say the words.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.
“Why would you think that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Hm, let’s see,” she says. She ticks off my offenses. “You disrespect my work every chance you get, you edged me, and you seem to get off on making me angry. Should I go on?”
“First of all, I haven’t disrespected your work. And second, what the fuck doesyou edged memean?” I ask.
