“Ugh. That’s worse. That book was horribly sad. We had to read it in eighth grade, and I never recovered.”
“Don’t they say ‘sad is your aesthetic?’”
I roll my eyes. “They that don’t actually know me do.”
“Fine. Then no Lenny-Bunny.”
“Thank you.”
“Lenny-Pie it is.”
His fingers fly back over the screen, and I can’t help myself. I slide across the couch and grip his thick forearm, lowering his hands. Something zips through my fingertips and up my arm at the feel of his warm skin.
My heart pounds in my chest as our eyes meet. His gaze drops from mine to my lips momentarily, just long enough for me to realize that I’msoclose to him. Closer than I think I’ve ever been without actual cause, like yelling at him for showing up unannounced at my private recording session.
“Please don’t name me after a man. Something tells me people won’t quite believe us if they think he and I are synonymous to you. There isn’t anything sexy about Lenny. I’ve seen the girls you’ve dated, and none of them look like a Lenny-Pie. You’re supposed to at least find your girlfriend sexy. Even if it’s fake.”
“Who says I don’t?”
All at once, my heart catapults into my stomach like it’s mad at it. Did Decker just say I’msexy? It’s a compliment I’m no stranger to, but it feels different coming from him. I'm nothing like the girls he’s been cuddling up with in rumors and photos.I’m not even the cutesy girl-next-door type like Ada Lane, his most recent conquest. I’m just Lena Lux—Lukowski—“the brunette with thick thighs and a voice of gold,” as I was once coined by some online publication. Though I’ll take “sexy” over that description if I have a choice.
My lips part, but words evade me as I stare into his eyes. Out of my peripheral, something appears, and before my brain can register what it is, Decker’s phone makes a clicking sound. Then he leans back into the couch and stares at his screen like nothing happened.
“Did you just take a picture of us?” I ask, unsure of whether I should laugh or throw his phone across the room.
“Our first fight. Gotta document.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s hardly our first.”
“Won’t be our last either with that attitude.”
I huff out a laugh, and Decker catches me out of the corner of his eye before smiling back at his phone.
“I have to admit we look pretty good together, though.” He scoots closer so I can see the photo.
It’s candid. It isnotflattering. But it’s kind of sweet he thinks it is.
“Here,” I say, pulling up the stupid series of pictures Antonia and my mom have bombarded me with for inspo. “You can’t post that. My team had some ideas?—”
“Your team?” He guffaws. “I know they’re pulling the strings here, but I feel like you’d know best. What’s your signaturethis is my boyfriendpose?”
“Signature boyfriend pose?” I laugh, but not because it’s funny.
He’s as misinformed as everyone else if he thinks I have a “relationship pose.” Sure, I’ve dated my fair share of men, but there’s no signature anything. Each one is different from the last. The guy. The dynamic. Who I feel like I’m becoming. I want to beoffended, but when he nods and leans in like he’s truly listening, I can tell he’s taking this seriously. Decker is strategizing. He’s asking because he wants us to succeed, and in this moment, I feel like he’s someone I can truly partner with. We both need our heads fully in the game for this to work. We have to be a team. If I flee at any slight offense, we’ll never convince anyone. We’ll never outrun the things that wove this “relationship” together in the first place.
I waver but dim my screen, forgoing the cache of poses from my pushy mom. If this is going to work, we need to be natural. We have to be ourselves. My stomach does a roll straight to the floor as I place my hands on his shoulders and begin to maneuver him. I pull my hands back, not sure if I should be manipulating him like he’s some kind of photo shoot prop, but for all intents and purposes—the purpose of saving both our skins—I suppose he is to some extent. At least for today.
My faltering doesn’t throw him off. Carefully, he places his strong hands around each of my wrists, plants my palms back on his shoulders, and smirks. “Go ahead. I’m yours. Do your worst.”
Why do I feel like I might ignite at that sentiment? I push it aside, avoiding the way that he watches my face as I slowly drape my legs over his lap. My pastel pink shorts contrast with his navy jeans, the lace of my white top a contradiction to his casual olive t-shirt. Even the way we dress screams our differences. I run a hand through the back of his shockingly soft hair. His chest stills. Is he even breathing? Have I taken this too far? There’s a jittery feeling zinging through my veins, something that goes beyond my typical show adrenaline. It’s different.
Wait. Is Decker Trace making me—I pause, searching for the feeling—nervous?
I clear my throat and try to maneuver as gently as possible. “Sorry, you asked for the pose, and with Callum—” Saying his name feels so wrong as I sit atop the mountain that is DeckerTrace. But I have to admit, it sure feels nice not to worry about crushing someone’s thin legs under my own thick thighs. Beneath me, Decker’s legs are firm, like sitting on warm tree trunks. Which is weird, because whoever thought tree trunks could feel so… good. “Of course we have to make it our own, but I would say this will definitely get some attention.”
Decker nods along, staring into my eyes like my words are some playbook he’s poring over.
Awkwardly, I reach out and wrap an arm around his barrel of a neck, trying to mimic the cozy lap pose that, at the time, had come so organically to Callum and me. “This was the photo everyone went nuts for with Cal—” I cut off his name, reminding myself I’ll never move on if I keep speaking it. “With my last relationship.”
