Page 51

Quickly, I type in my password, then open the most popular social-media app and type Gio’s first name in the search box. I don’t even have to know his social-media handle; his is the first account to pop up. A verified badge sits beside his name.

“Holy no, no, no.” I clap a hand over my mouth and whimper.

Amelia locks in beside me, shoulder to shoulder. “Giovanni Salami,” she says, reading his name aloud. Her cackle is so intense, everyone within range peers in our direction.

“That cannot be his real name. Staaap! Giovanni. Fucking. Salami?” Bent over, she cries with laughter and slaps her knees.

Meanwhile, I’m like a deer in the headlights. It’s not his real name. It’s a stage name, and it’s ridiculous.

When I come to my senses, I open Gio’s first pinned post. It’s a video of him tugging off his T-shirt and then stroking a mammoth salami like he did moments ago. With his darkening, come-hither gaze, he looks like he’s about to flambé every single person watching his channel.

My mind may be blanking out, but my vagina awakens fully, like someone just slid freshly baked chocolate-coconut cookies under its nose, and now it’s ready to weep it’s so hungry. I think a tear just ran down my leg.

“Read his bio. Look at the tagline.” Amelia is laughing so hard, tears stream down her reddening face. She can barely breathe, or stand, for that matter, she thinks this is so funny.

I clear my throat and read the words slowly, taking in the double entendre. “If it’s too hot, blow harder.”

19/

giovanni

Rules of Cohabitation

When evening rolls around, we’ve shot a few days of content. Though we’re still behind schedule, I’m feeling better about catching up. Photo stills have been chosen, videos are saved for editing, and we’ve finalized storyboards for our next shoot.

So now, I’m sitting on the back deck and enjoying a well-deserved Mai Tai. Casey, Amelia, and Matt are in the pool, splashing each other. They’ve all become friendly, thank God. But I haven’t seen Sophia since she scurried out of the house this morning.

Like every day this week, when I need to think about something other than work, I open my social media. With a little more sleuthing, I found Sophia’s personal page, and because curiosity has the best of me, I’m scrolling over it now.

I’m a little surprised she didn’t lock it off after Freddie’s viral wedding post. Her messages and comments must be out of control. Though she doesn’t seem to spend much time on her phone, which is probably for the best under the circumstances. Online, many people praise her for reaming out her ex, but where there is interest, there are internet trolls.

Worse than trolls? Her ex—Roman.

His posts have been blowing up social media as he explains to the world why he’s not a lying asshole. Predictably, by adding to the conversation, he’s only fueled the fire. Because of it, all related posts will live on longer. With the way he’s acting, it’s as if he likes the negative attention.

There’s something wrong with the guy.

My thumb hovers over an image of Sophia from many years ago. She’s dressed like a bride for Halloween, a very scantily clad bride. The skimpy skirt barely covers luscious ass cheeks, and the top has been ripped open to reveal a red velvet bra. Her boobs muffin-top the lingerie in such a sumptuous manner, my mouth has turned boner dry.

I take another sip of my drink. It doesn’t stop the strain I feel against my zipper. These days, I’m like a goddamned pre-teen who can’t control themselves when they see a pretty woman, specifically this pretty woman. I’m pathetic.

During my sleuthing, I discover Sophia works in the wedding industry with a woman who looks suspiciously like her mother. Judging by their body language, they are as cozy as pythons.

I know the feeling.

The person missing in her posts? Her ex. Maybe she deleted the photos. Given the chance, I’d delete him in every possible way. But then, if he weren’t such an epic shithead, I wouldn’t be sitting here, dreaming about wanting to know her better . . . or motorboating those glorious tits.

Definitely not a gentleman.

My internet search leads to another asshole. Adam. I haven’t cyber-stalked him in ages. Not that he goes by Adam these days. He hasn’t in years. After he fucked up my life, his career rocketed to another level.

His rise to fame is the reason I don’t believe in the other Tina word—ino. In English it means karma. If it were real, his shitty ass wouldn’t be DJing all over the world. If karma existed, he’d be aimlessly floating around the ocean on a sinking raft, with circling sharks . . . preferably tied to Sophia’s ex. I stare into space, my eyes blurring, until the daydream plays out and both are shark bait.

“DJ 2-Nice, my ass.” I sip my drink.

I thumb through his posts, noting he’s in LA this weekend, not Hawaii like I’ve led Sophia to believe. I’m not even sure what I’ll tell her when she starts asking deeper questions. For now, she’s been content with minimal information. Probably because she’s so stunned I’m going to help her. And by help her, I mean I will do everything within my power to keep her safe from Adam Not-Nice.

I’m terrified to spend tomorrow with Sophia because of our undeniable chemistry. That fucking kiss. Terrified, because if she discovers what I’m doing, she might kill me for real.