“What?” I ask, more self-conscious by the second.
“Wanna make a million bucks, easy?” he asks, snaring my gaze with sparkling eyes.
“Sure,” I answer, rolling my eyes. A million bucks isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still way out of my reach.
He steps out of the bathroom and returns with his phone.
“C’mere,” he says, putting his arm around me. “Give me that look you gave me right before you spun me around and fucked me into the mattress.”
His words pull me back to that exact moment. Theclickof his camera app forces me back to the present.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
He nods, kissing my nose. “Is there anyone who shouldn’t know we’re together?”
No, fuck no, and he’s lucky I don’t pee on him to mark my territory.
Thankfully, I have enough self-control to simply say, “I’m proud to be with you, but I don’t ever post or put my personal life online?—”
“Good,” he says, hitting a few buttons. “By mid-morning, one of the top five designers will be sliding into my DMs and asking what you’re doing for New York Fashion Week. Take a few days of PTO, don’t fall off the runway, and bring home the cash so we don’t have to fucking worry about the money.”
I run my hand through my hair, not knowing what the hell he’s talking about.
“Look.”
He pulls up social media and shows me the mirror selfie he took of us. The old mirror and the steam from the sink, plus whatever filter he used, give it atmosphere. But that’s not the important part.
Because holyfuck, do we look hot together.
And the expression on my face… Anyone with any knowledge of gay sex will know exactly which positions we’ve just been in. He’s taller, younger, and more handsome, but I look like I just…well.
Fucked him into the mattress.
“Now look at this.”
He refreshes the page, and the picture he took of us not thirty seconds ago hasten thousandlikes.
“It’s barely five o’clock in the morning,” I say, stunned.
“It’s six o’clock in New York,” he says with a grin. “And some of those fashion influencers haven’t even gone to bed yet.”
My phone starts buzzing on my side table.
“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” he asks, walking out of my bathroom.
Reaching over in a long, elegant stretch, he grabs my phone and hands it to me.
I’ve got five texts, two from Joni.
Five hundred plus friend requests.
And a DM from Ralph Lauren’s account.
“What the fuck did you just do?”
Mav’s phone buzzes, something it only does for family, and he checks the screen.
Laughing, he shows me the text from Hopper.
