He was doing what she’d expected. He just wasn’t doing it in the way she’d expected.
It was different than when they’d gone after each other on social media.
It feels different.
She stood up and began pacing.
At least the dream always ended where it did. That was a good thing. Any other man, and she might have preferred the dream not stop. But given it was that annoying, arrogant, asshole, prick, better it end before …
Before what?
Before he did … something.
Her phone buzzed. It was Charles.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Just waiting. We haven’t started yet.”
“Nervous?”
“A little. You know I don’t feel comfortable in front of a camera.”
Ping.
“What’s that?” Nico asked.
“My phone. Photos of your coffee run. One of them’s gone viral.”
Ping.
Viral?
And then Nico thought of the men dressed in those outfits.
I guess that makes sense.
“Why are you bending over Rocco Vittori while he’s sitting down?”
Someone took a photo of that?
Nico felt beads of sweat sprout above her upper lip. So what if someone took a photo? There was nothing interesting or special there.
So why did someone take a photo of it?
“Nico, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Uh. My hair got stuck in his zipper. He was trying to get it out.”
Charles laughed. “Yourhair? Got stuck inhiszipper?” He paused. “How exactly did that positioning even come about? Him sitting down and you standing over him like that.”
“He wanted some sugar.”
“Well, well, well,” Charles chuckled. “Looks like he got it.”
“In his coffee, Charlemagne.” Nico huffed.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
