“Wait. J.D. said you were taking a few weeks off.”
“A few days here and there, but not the whole week every week.”
“Why?”
“I have things to take care of.”
“What things?” I ask, then soften when his smile tilts. When he doesn’t answer, I admit, “I… miss home.”
He hears the wobble and straightens. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that’s what you say. “But the water in the hotel tastes like chemicals.”
“Did you eat?” His tone slides into protective mode again.
I hold up the pretzels. “Gourmet dining.”
He sighs in a way that says he wants to DoorDash me a steak and personally watch me chew it. “Next time, call me when you feeloff.”
“And hear ‘hydrate and eat a protein bar’ in stereo? Hard pass.”
He opens his mouth to protest and then pauses, his gaze snagging on somewhere below my collarbone. His eyebrows rise, then his mouth curves like he’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I demand, squinting at the screen. “Don’t you dare say my face looks weird.”
“Oh, your face looks great,” he says, far too relaxed. “It’s just—how do I put this delicately—you might want to do something about those.”
“Those—”
I follow his line of sight down and realize my tank is doing me zero favors in the air-conditioning. Zero. “Oh my God.”
I slap a pillow to my chest so fast I almost drop the phone. Heat rushes to my cheeks, impossible and instant. “You’re the worst,” I mutter, not meaning it at all. He’s quite the opposite.
“I’m simply observing,” he says lightly. “Journalistic integrity.”
“You’re not a journalist.”
“I’m method acting then.” He tries and fails not to laugh. “I mean, if a rookie noticed?—”
“No rookies noticed,” I say, mortified and weirdly… not. His voice softens the mortification into something fizzy and ridiculous.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’d have to drive up there and run a clinic on eye discipline.”
“You can’t bench the entire rookie class.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re very intimidating through an iPhone,” I deadpan.
He leans closer until his eyes fill the frame, green and intent. “I don’t like guys looking at you like you’re… available.”
I forget how to breathe for a second. The pillow is a furnace. “We’re fake, remember?”
“Yeah.” The word is quiet. Not untrue. Not the whole truth. “I remember.”
Silence buzzes. The air conditioner kicks on and flutters the corner of the curtain. I can hear my own pulse in my ear like it’s close to the surface.
I clear my throat first because I always do. “For what it’s worth, I was too busy not fainting to flirt.”
