He really does have good lips. Nicely shaped. Accentuated by the stubble, not hidden by it.
“I got no clue,” he said. Silence stretched, and he quietly cleared his throat.
And I’m still staring at his good lips.
My gaze shot up to meet his, and I hoped like hell that the blush spreading across my cheeks wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.
“You’ve got my phone,” he reminded me, that small smile back on his face.
Oops.
“Sorry, zoned out,” I muttered. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I’d just zoned out while ogling my boss.
I pulled his phone from my bag and tried to hand it over, but he made no move to take it as he drank the rest of the water.
Okay…
I typed in his passcode, thinking again how it was absolutely insane that he gave his assistants access to something so personal. One disgruntled employee, one bad text, email, or online comment, and his world would go up in smoke.
Especially if he had intimate photos or messages that could be shared.
My only guess was he kept that stuff on a separate phone. If he was smart, he kept it on a separate phone armed with two-step authentication and biometrics, and he stored it in a safe only he had access to.
That was what I would do. Just sending slightly risqué texts had turned me into a neurotic mess who triple checked that I hadn’t hit the wrong button to somehow send it to my professors, mortal enemies, and gynecologist.
As a precaution, I even had him saved as TC in case I lost my phone. As if there weren’t countless other Tripp’s in the world it could be.
My brows lowered as I opened Instagram and went to his profile.
This can’t be right.
I clicked the little toggle to see if there was another username to switch to, but there wasn’t.
Huh.
The follower count of over two million was impressive but still not as high as I would expect. But since the only picture was of a random sky from four years prior, it was no wonder. Despite the blue check certification, most probably thought it was a scam account that would hit them up for money, claiming he needed it to fund his next project.
Or worse, ask for nudes.
“Is this your only account?” I asked, making sure. At his chin lift, I gave the other man the username.
“Is it the same on TikTok?” he asked.
“Probably,” Tripp said.
I opened the app to be sure, expecting a bouncing booby video or something similar. Instead, it was one of those countdowns of the best classic comedies.
“It’s the same,” I confirmed. The handle might’ve been the same, but the rest of it was different. He had a higher follower count on that app, but he didn’t follow anyone at all. And there wasn’t a single video or picture. Not even a lone repost.
The man looked at the screen before his face twisted in horror. He quickly masked it. “You should hire someone to handle your socials. I can recommend some companies.”
Tripp shook his head. “I’m good.”
“But it’s—” the man started, and I could see Tripp’s instant annoyance form.
“I’ll help him,” I cut in. Not that I was a pro who was going viral or anything, but it wasn’t like his online presence could get any worse. And adding another bullet point to my meager resume would help me in the future.
Not to mention, the added responsibility went toward earning my overinflated salary.
