Page 21 of While You Were Trending

My brain is right.

I need to move on.

Forget about Ginny.

Let her handle her own problems.

Do my job here and leave.

My heart is still working on believing the message though.

Ten grunts to himself. “I’m done. You finish.”

He’s shaking his hand out as he strolls out of the building.

Samantha pokes her head in from the kitchen area. “When you’ve finished setting all the tables against the wall, throw the linens in the laundry room. It’s off the storage room. And then I need someone to wash all of the pots and pans on the counter.”

I don’t have to.

It’s not my job either.

But my jobisto film a documentary here, so being helpful and learning everything I can about this place before my director gets here tonight is in my best interest.

I keep working, forcing myself to barely think about Ginny.

Only a time here or there when I spot Ten outside a window, talking to Olivia and scratching his head, making me think of Ginny and her identical, though longer, curls.

Or when his snort-laugh drifts in through the cracked window, which is something I’ve heard Ginny do in my dreams.

Same snort-laugh as her brother.

It’s annoying when Ten does it, but when Ginny does it, it’s just?—

Ahem.

I’mnotthinking about Ginny.

So much so that I ignore her when she appears in the kitchen doorway as I’m scrubbing a large stockpot after finishing with my other tasks from Samantha.

Ginny’s a figment of my imagination, and I need to stop hallucinating about her, especially about her wearing dark sunglasses inside, her hair going wild, her sundress on backward and inside out—I can see the tag—a knit shawl over her shoulders, and an insulated mug of coffee so strong that I can smell it.

“Turn that off, please,” she says to me, nodding to my phone as it records me washing dishes—I record half my life now for socials—and startling me out of my alternate reality where she’s not real.

Her voice is less raspy than it was first thing this morning, but it still makes my cock twitch.

I wonder if she’s dating any—no.

Stop it, Fox.

I dry my hands and hit the button to stop my phone from recording.

She tilts her head.

I pull it off the stand, show her that I’m powering it off, then shove it in my pocket.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Sure.”