“So?”
His lip curls. “So what was the plan? Get me in a compromised position? Post about it on your story? Look at this! Hero firefighter Jake Conroy is nothing but a sleazy creep eager to jump the bones of a poor young woman needing help? Drive up your clicks? Your engagement?”
An invisible fist squeezes my heart. “What? Why would you think… Do you really think I’m that kind of person?”
His Adam’s apple jerks up and down his throat. He holds my stare, an unreadable light burning in his eyes. Anger? Disgust? Disbelief? Grief?
I shake my head and shove my phone in my back pocket, glaring at him. “If you weren’t so busy thinking about yourself, you would have noticed there’s one defining theme to my Instagram account. Animals. I post about animals, Conroy. Only animals. Usually endangered ones. Not people. And definitely not egomaniacs who think they’re the only reason anyone takes photos. But I tell you what, seeing as you’re behaving like a horse’s ass, maybe I should post about you as well?”
He stares at me, expression even more indecipherable.
“Don’t worry.” I spin away, snatch up my boots and socks, and point at him with a cold smile. “I’d hate to lose any followers putting you on my feed.”
I storm past him and march down the hallway into the living room. His following footsteps punch at my heart like a hammer.
Picking up my camera from the lamp table, I sling it around my neck and head for the front door.
Well, ifthishasn’t taught me a lesson. There’s only one thing worth focusing on, and it’s me. My studies. My degree. And animals. They don’t judge or leap to conclusions.
I reach the door and yank it open.
“Waverly,” Jake growls behind me.
I fling him a look over my shoulder. “And here I was thinking I’d fallen in love with you.”
Without waiting for a response, I step outside and pull the door close behind me.
Chapter Nine
Jake
Go after her.
I glare at the closed door and suck in a slow breath. Waverly’s scent fills my nose, my lungs, and despite the confusion churning in my gut, my body responds. No, not just my body. My soul.
Go after her.
Clawing my hands through my hair, I replay everything she just said. Every word.
Only animals.
Returning to my bedroom, ignoring the smell of Waverly and amazing sex still lingering on the air, I pick up my phone. Wake it up. Look at her profile. I scroll through the images on it.
Animals. Just animals. Amazing images of animals. But just animals.
Clicking the most recent post—an image of a wedgetail eagle soaring in the sky uploaded yesterday—I skim through its comments, noticing most of them are from today.
Are you safe up there in the wilderness, Waverly? You haven’t posted a story yet.
Hope you’re okay. Did you photograph the dragonfly?
Your last story has us worried, Waverly. You said you were going into some rough terrain, and we haven’t heard from you since. Please let your followers know you’re okay.
Hi Waverly. Please ease this poor American’s mind and tell me you haven’t been bitten by one of those deadly Australian snakes or spiders.
And on and on. All the same. All worried she hasn’t posted anything since apparently seeing the dragonfly.
Not a hint about me in any of them.
