What?“You don’t follow me.”
“Of course I do.”
I tap into the app, pull up my followers, and search for his name. “Nope.”
He takes the device from me and types something different into the search field:aintlovegrant. The icon shows a man about twenty feet from the camera, standing on a residential sidewalk, brownstones extending behind him like books arranged on a shelf. He’s wearing a cap and sunglasses.
“Thisis you?” I ask, incredulous. “How on earth would I know?”
“Are you meant to know?” he asks.
“You’re a publicist!” I tap his profile open. “There aren’t even any posts on your account. How does Woodsworth let you get away with this?”
He shrugs. “They’ve never cared.”
Shanthi makes a sound of disgust. “Is it because you’re old? They let you get away with whatever?”
His brows draw together. “I’m only thirty-six.”
Two years older than me. Yet I can’t help thinking that Ryan seems so much older than other men the same age. More mature.
I press the blue Follow button, then pull down the menu to add him to my favorites. “In case you ever decide to post anything,” I say.
The glint of satisfaction in his eyes borders on cockiness, and it does something to my insides. The lower region, specifically.
“So you have an account,” Maral says. “Doesn’t really count if you’re unsearchable.” She gives him a once-over. “What kind of secrets you hiding, Grant?”
As if on cue, his phone rings, and he pulls it from his pocket. The nameCelinescrolls across the screen and he excuses himself to take the call.
“Is it just me, or does he get cuter when he’s questioned?” Mar asks.
“It’s not just you,” Shanthi says.
I take a sip of my drink, and then another. Obviously they find him attractive—any person with a hypothalamus in their brain would find Ryan attractive—but hearing them voice it aloud pulls back a curtain inside me that would do best to remain closed. Giving credence to something I might otherwise be able to pretend doesn’t exist. A secret between me and my vibrator.
Mar is eyeing me. “For the horniest woman I know, you’re awfully quiet on this subject.”
Caught out, I pause a moment too long before responding, “I don’t think it’s relevant.”
“Relevant?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’re working together. I’m pretty sure he’s on the phone with his girlfriend right now. There’s no way anything could happen.”
“Happen?” She and Shanthi exchange an amused look. “Whoa. I was just saying he’s cute—not that any of us would ever hook up with him.”
“Right.” The word whooshes out of me. “I know.” I drink again.
She squints. “Unless you’ve thought about this already.”
“I’ve thought about hooking up with Ryan as much as I’ve thought about hooking up with Shanthi, which is to say, not ever even once. No offense, Shanthi.”
“None taken,” she says flatly. “You’re not my type.”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. Now I need to know more about this. “Not into charismatic dynamos?”
She waggles her head from side to side. “You’re a little…much.No offense.”
Offense! Definite offense. Although it’s not the first or even tenth time I’ve heard this assessment—often put less kindly.
