Page 19 of Tiger Lilies and Tight Ends

That’s right, wall. Not a hidden notebook or journal. Not a document I created on my laptop, but an actual physical outline that Dean not once ever saw. He had his office, and I had mine. When we first moved into the condo, he directed the movers where to place my new desk, but after that, I don’t think he ever entered the space. I’m not sure what he thought I was doing in there, but he never asked. I would tell him I was off to do some work, and he would smile and say, “Okay.” Looking back, this definitely should have been another red flag. He never took interest in me. He never asked.

I pull out the pale pink and light blue ones for obvious reasons, and then the yellow for the scenes. I’ve started lining them up on the wall, one row next to another, each representing a chapter, and slowly but surely, I’m working my way toward thirty-something chapters. There’s something so satisfying about seeing the completed vision at the end. It fills me with joy and also sorrow when I take it down.

I’m writing heartbroken and trust issues on a light blue sticky when Morgan calls and says, “So since I haven’t heard from you since North Carolina, and you’re ghosting me like a bad friend and business partner, I checked your location. You’ve moved from the mountains and now you’re in Florida?”

While Morgan and I have texted a few times over the past week, I haven’t taken any of her calls. She threatened and told me if I didn’t pick up today, I’d have to find a new assistant, and well, I don’t want that, but I also don’t want to upset her.

“I am,” I tell her, glancing at my laptop document I started about this series. I’m ready to match the ideas I’ve had about this series with their respective colors and begin building the wall. I’ve started this story, but up until today, I didn’t feel I had enough of act one of the story to begin the wall layout.

“Why? Don’t you remember summers there are brutal.”

I do remember sort of, but quite frankly, I feel like DC got just as hot. Maybe not for as long, but it’s still hot, and those times Morgan did come to visit me in Miami, I don’t remember her complaining about the heat as we posted up on the beach to get a tan and watch for cute guys. I may have been dating Dean, but there’s nothing wrong with appreciating the South Beach scenery.

Looking at the colors, I grab the green pack because I’ve started having ideas about the other books in this series too. Green holds main tropes for me to build off.

“They’re not that bad. It’s not like I’m spending all day outside. Besides, I was offered a free place to stay.”

“Really? With who?”

Morgan and I have been friends since middle school. She’s the only person I have in my life, outside of my family, who was never wowed by who my boyfriend was. It’s been hard to make friends, and even the ones who’ve been around longer than others were girlfriends of other players. They understood the lifestyle, and in this weird way, we bonded together.

Now, because Morgan has known me for so long, before Dean, I’m certain the minute she hears his name, she’s going to flip.

“About that. Lance arranged this for me.”

“Lance,” she says slowly. Morgan is a bright person. I’m certain she’s putting one and one together. “And you’re in Tampa?”

“Yes.”

She gasps. “Please, please, please tell me you are where I think you are.”

“And where do you think I am?” I smile, imagining her face.

“Staying in the home of a six-foot-seven god on earth, with thick dark hair and smoldering dark eyes that could eat my soul?”

I laugh. She’s so dramatic.

And you can tell I wasn’t the only one who had a crush on my brother’s best friend.

“Maybe.”

“I’m at a complete loss for words, and I’m never at a loss. I’m shocked that he agreed to this. Does he walk around shirtless? What does he smell like? What does his house look like? You have to send me pictures. Do you talk? What do you talk about?" She fires off one question after another, and with each one, she’s talking faster and faster. “This is amazing. This is almost unbelievable. I can’t believe you are staying in Tyler Quinn’s home,” she squeals. “Never in a million years would I have come up with this scenario. The perfect scenario. You know what they say, ‘To get over one horse, climb on another!’ Are you going to ride him like he’s a horse? Please tell me you will. Or are you, and that’s why I haven’t heard from you? Tell me something, I’m dying here,” she drags out in an exasperated way.

“First off, slow down.” I lean back on my pillow and adjust my legs, as one of them has fallen asleep.

“I can’t. This is like a fantasy come true,” she whispers.

“Stop. It’s really not. He’s doing Lance a favor, and this isn’t forever. No, he doesn’t walk around shirtless; other than his laundry detergent, I haven’t been close enough to smell him; his house is normal like anyone’s; I can’t send you any pictures—that’s part of the rules; we talk a little, but not a whole lot as he’s super busy and I’m working; and well, for the most part when our paths do cross, our conversations are pretty casual.”

A ping of guilt hits me as I answer her questions. This feels a lot like breaking rule number two. Even though I’m not taking pictures, it’s still his home and his life she’s asking me about.

“Gah. Your answers are boring, and what do you mean by part of the rules?”

I stand from the bed and shake my leg to work the circulation back in. Needles are attacking my foot, and I now remember why I don’t sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Well, there’s not really much to tell, and he had a few requests of me if I was going to stay here. No pictures of him or any of his things at all. He values privacy, and I totally get it.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”