“What you’re saying is a pretty girl asked you out and you were too scared to say yes.”
Fuck yes, I was scared, and rightfully so. I was a grad school dropout turned photographer; Nellie was a lawyer, who worked hard and played harder. In the eleven-ish months since she’d moved in, I had seen her come and go—to club and bar openings, to red-carpet events, on dates with men who wore watches that cost more than my most expensive camera. Clearly, she was interested in somebody to wine and dine her, and I was more of a cocoa and cuddle kind of guy. My social battery didn’t allow for much outside of work and the occasional movie night with Sloane, and I was fine with that.
A lot of my previous partners hadn’t been, though, and I refused to be the one that dimmed Nellie’s light.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “Let’s get some shots from the left.”
She didn’t let up as we made our way across the beach to get another angle. “Texas, when are you going to realize that you’re the prize? Seriously, any girl, gay, or they would be lucky to call you daddy.”
Sloane giggled when I tripped over my feet, catching myself—and my camera—before I nose-dived into the sand.
Never in my thirty-four years had I thought of myself as a “prize,” something to be won. Not when there were so many better, younger, and more successful options. Then again, growing up as the “baby brother” to the famous Amato sisters—or infamous, depending on who you asked in Cleveland—hadn’t left many opportunities to come in first, so to speak. Each one of my sisters was a powerhouse to be reckoned with, and together, they were unstoppable.
Sloane had been right about one thing, though: I was a kinky fucker. There wasn’t much I wasn’t up for in the bedroom, so long as it got my partner off, preferably more than once.
The things I wanted to do to Nellie Wheatley . . . fuck.
That didn’t mean I talked about them out loud with anybody, not even my best friend.
“Can we not talk about her anymore?”
Sloane exhaled exaggeratedly and tucked one of her long black curls behind her ear, exposing her multiple piercings. Seeing as how she had posed for me in a series of nudes last year, I knew firsthand that there were a lot more silver hoops and balls going on underneath her demure outfit. She might put off the appearance of the girl next door, but there was a lot more to Sloane than met the eye.
“Fine.” She huffed. “I’ll leave it alone.” She waited approximately zero-point-two seconds before quickly adding, “But,can I just say one more thing?”
A loud belly laugh escaped me. We both knew her too well. Not only did she always have to have the last word, but she also never shied away from telling youexactlyhow she felt. It was the quality I envied most about her.
“Don’t close that door too soon, babe. I’ve seen the way you look at her, like she’s the last slice of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I’m more of a pecan guy.”
Sloane rolled her eyes. “Then you’re dumber than I thought. All I’m saying is there’s clearly something there. She asked you out, and you brought her snacks and apologized. Sounds like a match made in millennial heaven to me.”
If snacks and a kind word or two were all it took to impress a woman these days, then heterosexual men were failing miserably.
“It sounds like you’re dating the wrong men.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I have high hopes for this new one, though.” Just then, a Grinch dressed in a candy cane striped Speedo sped past us on aunicycle, surfboard strapped to his back. “Then again, if things don’t work out, it looks like I have options.”
Deep down, I knew what Sloane was saying made sense. Not about the Grinch—I would sooner go down in a swan boat than go down on a man covered in green fur, no matter how hung he was. By all accounts, I had a lot of great things going for me—a family who loved me (even if they didn’t always understand me), a career that I loved and made a decent living at, and a rent-controlled apartment, which in West L.A., might as well have been liquid gold.
But unlike a lot of the people I had met, dated, and worked with since moving here nearly a decade ago, I didn’t trade in accomplishments. Transactional relationships were a dime a dozen in Hollywood, and while that might have worked for some people, I wasn’t one of them.
I didn’t need a sensational or extraordinary love; comfortably quiet would do. And to be fair, there was something extraordinary about that unto itself. It wasn’t every day that you found somebody you could lie with in comfortable silence for hours on end without feeling uneasy.
“Allow me to propose a toast, then,” I said. Sloane cocked her head to one side and gestured toward her empty hand.
“Um, I think we’re missing something. If you want to ditch this Santa fest for drinks, though—”
“Shut up and lift a lens, will you?”
I held my camera out in front of me, pointing the lens toward the clear blue sky. Sloane’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. To her credit, though, she didn’t question me or my sudden proclamation. Instead, she reached into my hefty equipment bag and lifted a macro lens with gusto, holding it up in front of her face.
“To taking a chance on ourselves.” She lifted a brow. “And the people lucky enough to know us, fuck us, and, maybe one day, love us.”
“Lucky bastards.”
My attention caught on something behind her. “Speaking of lucky bastards.” I pointed over her shoulder, toward the Santa currently tugging a pair of balled-up socks out of his swim trunks. “I believe you owe me twenty bucks.”
