by Monroe, Lila
Will chuckles. “I fucking hope not!” He leans forward again to scan the photos. “They all look the same. How am I supposed to choose?”
“The differences are subtle,” I explain. “But your Instagram profile pic is important. You want to build a brand? You need to have your best face—pun intended—forward.”
“I know,” he sighs as he waves a hand vaguely toward the screen. “Why don’t you just pick one.”
I was prepared for this. Will is a great guy—and looks like a model, all six foot three inches of gym-crafted man. Somehow, he accidentally stumbled into twenty thousand Instagram followers, and now he wants to take things to the next level and become a legit Insta-celeb who gets paid to lounge around looking ridiculously attractive. To do that, he needs more than his good instincts, thrift-store hipster wardrobe, and a selfie stick.
He needs to go Kardashian-viral.
The only thing stopping him? Himself. Because he’s indecisive and insecure.
Enter me: ad man, social media guru, and all-around marketing genius . . . at least in my own mind. I’ve worked at a couple of marketing firms before, channeling my inner Don Draper, minus the outdated sexist douchebag routine, but recently decided to strike out on my own, consulting smaller businesses on their social media strategies and how to build buzz. Will’s going to be my masterpiece. The crowning glory of my portfolio.
Just as soon as he can pick a damn profile pic.
“I like number six,” I say, pointing at the bottom frame in the virtual lightbox I’ve created for him.
He frowns. “I look fat in that one, look at all the chins!”
“How about four?” I suggest, managing not to sigh or even roll my eyes.
He gives a loud tsk and shakes his head. “Could my nostrils look any bigger?”
This time I do let out a long-suffering sigh. “Number two, then. And if you don’t like that one, I’m going to put up that baby picture of you in the bathtub that your mom sent out for your twenty-fifth birthday invitation. And then I will change your password.”
Will gapes at me in horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”
He presses his lips together. “Fine. Number two.”
Which is the one I wanted in the first place. Score one for Noah.
I pull up his Insta profile to swap out the old photo for the new one. After I do, I notice the last picture he posted to his feed. It’s of me. Taken through the front window of this café about ten minutes ago—I was sitting here waiting for him, looking intently at my laptop screen. The caption reads, Meeting bestie Noah for a biz chat. Isn’t he a #hottie? #friends #bros #sanfrancisco #sexyfriends #modelsofinstagram #notgay
I snort. “Hashtag: not gay?”
He nods in earnest. “I don’t want to ruin your chances with the ladies. And also, I don’t want the hot guys thinking I’m taken.”
A snicker causes my eyes to slide to the table next to us, where two women are listening to us while working very hard at looking like they’re not. They’re in their twenties, cute, having a very animated fake conversation, complete with vague hand gestures and lip movements.
I catch the eye of one of them and wink. She blushes furiously and starts tapping at her phone, returning to “not listening” in earnest while she likely tells her friend via text that she was just busted.
I smile. She’s cute and blonde and kind of reminds me of Eve—although my new roomie was blushing way more with fury than attraction this morning. And the other night. I wince at the memory. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly to string her along pretending I was her internet date, but I couldn’t help it. When a gorgeous woman approaches you in a bar, you don’t say, “Nope, I’m not the man you’re looking for,,” you try and get them to share a drink with you . . .
At least until you discover she’s one of those hopeless-romantic, hearts-and-flowers, soulmate kinds of girls.
I figured I’d never see her again, until she walked into the kitchen at Colin and Viv’s place and reminded me it’s a small world, after all.
A small, hot, curvy world . . .
Nope. I pull my thoughts away from her ample, ahem, charms, and back to the subject at hand. The future social-media hero of a subject.
“Now, for your homework, I want you to take more than just photos of you posing in clothes doing Blue Steel,” I tell Will. “Take some fun candid pictures. Get a few at the gym—show off your cut bod that you work so hard for. Sprinkle those in with the posed style shots to keep it interesting. You don’t want your entire feed looking like pages out of a Sears catalog.”
Will gasps. “SEARS CATALOG?” he demands predictably. I may have said Sears just to get a rise out of him. He knows it, too, but can’t help but get indignant. “Like I would ever wear clothes off the rack from Sears! You wound me, Noah, you really do.”
“What did he do this time?” our friend Eddie asks before he drops into the chair opposite us.
I smirk. “I accused him of wearing clothes from Sears for his Instagram photos.”
“You’re a monster,” Eddie deadpans.
Will shoots him a look.
Which Eddie ignores. “Speaking of Instagram,” he says, pulling out his phone and aiming it at me. “Check out what Mindy just posted.”
“Are you seriously still trolling your ex?” Will says, speaking for both of us. “It’s been weeks, Eddie. Time to move on.”
“Look!” Eddie says, shaking the phone right in Will’s face.
Will backs up his head and frowns toward the screen.
“So?” I say. “It’s Mindy at a spa getting her nails done.”
“Yeah,” Eddie bites out. “Exactly.”
Will and I exchange a look. “Uh, I’d expect this reaction if she was posting a picture of herself actually getting nailed,” Will says. “But . . .”
Suddenly, Eddie leans toward the table of women and shows them his phone. “What do you see here?” he asks. “There’s subtext, isn’t there? She’s trying to tell me something.”
“Don’t feel you need to answer that,” I say to the women. “He’s on the rebound and has no idea he’s being a creeper.”
“Creeper?” Eddie sputters.
I roll my eyes at the women. “Someday someone will take pity on him. He’s actually a nice guy, despite evidence to the contrary.”
The women exchange a meaningful look and then one of them says, “A creeper who’s a nice guy and a not-gay. Isn’t the worst meet-cute we’ve ever had, huh Brianna?”
Her friend shakes her head, smiling. “I’m sorry to say it isn’t.”
“Not gay?” Eddie asks, looking between me and Will.
“Just go with it,” I say to him, and then I turn to the women, flashing them my best smile. “Does this mean you’re up for drinks?”
After another shared look, they nod and we exchange numbers before the women leave with our promise that we’ll call them to set something up.
“See?” I say to Eddie. “You’ll be back on the horse in no time. You’re welcome.”
* * *
By the time Will and I are done planning his path to social media domination, I’m exhausted. I start toward home and then remember I’m staying at Colin and Viv’s place while my building gets fumigated. It’s definitely a step up going from my crappy old walk-up to their place, but when they heard from my mom that I’d be staying in a hotel otherwise, they insisted. And who was I to look a guest pool house in the mouth?
Viv and Colin are my godparents—college friends of my parents I’ve known forever. So while I don’t like depending on others, I know they’d be upset if I had turned down their offer.
Plus, free cable.
I’m about to cut through the house when I remember it currently has an occupant—Eve the pet-sitter. I sigh. Ordinarily, put me in this close proximity to a gorgeous woman, and I’d be trying my hardest to get her to join me in a pool house sleepover. But Eve? She’s way too ditzy and naïve for my
liking. The kind of person we always think of as a dream customer in the marketing trade—easily swayed and manipulated into buying the latest this or the new-and-improved that, like the latest shampoo is going to change her life.
I mean, come on, she believes in that “soulmates” fiction perpetuated by Hallmark, the chocolate industry, and diamond cartels. Trust me, I know all about it. CandyShack was one of my old clients—their bread and butter was all the big holidays—Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, Christmas. Their campaigns were all about making people feel like candy was somehow a sign of true love—and not just someone’s impulse buy.
Sure, Eve is physically the stuff dreams are made of, and adorable in a Pollyanna sort of way, but she’s way too goodie-goodie for my liking. Definitely not my type. In fact, my plan is to mostly avoid her while I’m staying here.
With that in mind, I open the garden gate and go around the house to the back yard. Only to see Eve peeking into the pool house window. She’s got her face pressed right up against the glass, her hands cupped around her eyes to shield out the sun.
I grin, seizing an opportunity. I quietly approach and lean over her shoulder. “What are we hoping to see?” I whisper in her ear.
She yelps and straightens up so fast, her head bashes into my chin, making me bite my tongue. Painfully.
“Ungh!” I groan.
She steps back and whirls on me. “What are you doing?” she demands, hands coming to the flare of hips.
I touch a finger to the tip of my tongue and sure enough, there’s blood. “Amputating my tongue, apparently,” I say.
“What?” she blurts, wide-eyed, coming closer. “Are you OK?”
“No.” I do a slow shake of my head. “You’re going to have to kiss it better.”
She rolls her eyes. “Pig.”
“Come on,” I grin. “You walked right into that one.”
She sighs and gives me half a smile. “Probably.”
“So,” I say. “Causing grievous injury aside, what are you doing?”
“Oh.” She blushes and looks around. “I have some friends coming over. I, uhhhhh . . .” She glances at the pool house door, clearly stalling. “Oh! I was checking to see if you had any sugar. I’m out of sugar.” She points her thumb over her shoulder toward the house.
So that’s random. “Sugar.” I smirk. She was definitely snooping.
“Yes. Sugar,” she asserts, biting her lip. “I am all out of sugar.”
My eyebrow goes up. “What are you making?”
She barely misses a beat. “My famous cinnamon buns.” She smiles, clearly proud of herself for coming up with something, implausible as it is. “With icing.”
“Oh, well of course you need sugar then,” I say, going along with it. “Maybe you could save one for me. Since I’m lending you the sugar and all.”
Her face falls slightly as she opens her mouth.
Just then the faint sound of the doorbell sets off the dogs. Saved by the bell.
“Gotta run,” she says. “Uh, do me a favor and leave us alone, OK?”
“Hot date?” I ask.
She makes a sour face. “No. Girls’ movie night.”
“Single girls’ movie night?”
“No.” She shoots me another look. “Just leave us alone, OK?” she says before she disappears inside the house.
Unable to suppress my curiosity, I unlock the pool house—which is, of course, about the entire size of my apartment. Tech has sure been kind to my godparents, but I know they’ve worked their asses off to get here, and are definitely deserving of their vacation right now.
While I’m deserving of some sugar—and I’m not talking about the kind in a bag. I find some in the kitchen area and head over to the main house, where Eve and her friends are already in the kitchen.
“Hi, ladies.” I flash a smile. While Eve glares at me, I am immediately sized up by her two friends.
And by sized up, I mean the full up-and-down treatment. “Which part of ‘leave us alone’ was not clear?” Eve asks.
“Evie,” one of the girls scolds. She’s tall and stylish in jeans and a print T-shirt. “Where are your manners? I’m Gemma, by the way.”
“Good to meet you,” I say, reaching across the island to shake hands. “Noah.”
“And this is Zoey,” Gemma adds, introducing the shorter girl in funky glasses.
I nod at Zoey before I turn back to face Eve. “I brought your sugar,” I say innocently.
Her eyes drop to the mug, incredulous.
“That you said you were out of. For the cinnamon buns you said you were going to make.”
A weird noise erupts from her friends. They know she’s full of shit, too and now they’re trying not to laugh.
This is getting better and better.
“You can put it there,” Eve says, pointing at the island.
“Oh,” I say, and I turn around. “I think maybe it’ll be better over here.” I slowly and deliberately slide it onto the counter right beside the big canister conveniently marked SUGAR. “You must be making a lot of buns.”
Eve’s friends sputter in laughter, even as she glares at them.
“I can’t wait to try these cinnamon buns you promised us, Evie,” Zoey says, smirking. “Maybe I’ll put the recipe in my cookbook.” She turns to me and explains. “I have a food truck and just got a cookbook deal,” she says proudly.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, my interest piqued. “Which truck?”
This starts a conversation about food trucks and our favorite local haunts, then Gemma’s phone buzzes with a notification and she excitedly starts talking about her app that’s a brilliant clothing donation program. I ask her a few questions about how she markets the app and we get into a great discussion about social media for non-profits. Honestly, I feel like I could go on forever, but I see Eve tapping her toe impatiently.
“Sorry,” I smirk. I have to admit, winding her up is kind of fun. Especially because she’s looking at me like I’m something the dogs left out in the yard. “Are we keeping you from something? Rolling out your dough? By all means, go ahead.”
“It’s supposed to be girls’ night,” she replies. “Unless there’s something you want to tell us . . . ?”
I snort. “Um, nope.”
“What happened with your matches, anyway?” Gemma interrupts, asking Eve. “Did you get any new ones? She just signed up for Perfect Match,” she explains to me. “We’re helping her find true love.”
“Zoey!” Eve blurts. “I’m right here! Can you not talk about me like I’m a leper with syphilis who isn’t in the room?”
“A leper with syphilis? We told you not to put that in your profile,” her friend deadpans. “No wonder you’re not getting any matches.”
“Very funny,” Eve laughs in spite of clearly not loving the spotlight.
“So? Have you gotten any matches today?” Gemma asks.
Eve darts a glance at me. I smile. “Well? Have you?”
She sighs and slides onto one of the kitchen island stools. “No. I mean, there was one, but I swiped left; he barely ticked any of the boxes.”
This just got interesting. I’m about to sit down when Leia starts pawing at my toes until I pick her up. I’m holding her like a baby, rubbing her belly, when I look at Eve and say, “Those boxes being . . . ?”
She looks at me and rolls her eyes, like, Oh, what the hell.
“Clearly he needs to be a dog person,” she begins, counting off on her fingers. “And loving, and clean, and have a decent job.”
All fair enough.
“And he has to believe in true love and soulmates.”
Oh. There’s the deal-breaker.
“Well, good luck with that,” I tell her, smirking.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eve frowns.
“Nothing,” I shrug, giving her a careless smile. I’m tempted to stick around and rile her up some more, but it’s been a long day, and I can tell she’s just about ready to snap.
Besid
es, she’s not going anywhere.
“Nice meeting you both,” I say to her friends, flashing a smile on my way out. “Have a good night, ladies. Save some cinnamon buns for me!”
5
Eve
How dare Noah? First he crashes my girls’ night—which part of girls’ night’ was unclear?—and then acts like I’m a prima donna for wanting true love? After he asked in the first place! Like I need to be judged by a player for having high standards?
I’m sure his list has exactly two boxes to tick: female and breathing.
This was after he charmed my friends into thinking he’s a nice guy. He’s done such a good job that after he leaves, they pounce on me, telling me I should go for him. “He’s really great,” Gemma says. “And smart—he knows a lot about marketing and social media.”
“And he’s hot, don’t forget,” Zoey adds.
I can’t exactly dispute it. Because Noah is hot. Smokingly, deliciously so.
But he’s also a cynical asshole whose favorite sport seems to be dumping on me and making fun of my optimism. While flashing that panty-melting grin.
Dammit.
“We should get the movie started,” I tell them, trying to put thoughts of our gatecrasher out of my mind.
“Never mind the movie, I want a tour!” Gemma insists.
“Hells yes,” Zoey agrees. “Tell me they have a walk-in pantry.”
I laugh, because of course Zoey only cares about the food storage. “They have a walk-in everything.”
I show them around. While Gemma is a wizard with shoestring wardrobe budgets, she does appreciate designer clothes and shoes. She nearly faints in ecstasy when she sees Viv’s walk-in closet that rivals Carrie Bradshaw’s—the one Big gifted her in the movie. “Too much!” she coos, spinning around.
I laugh, pulling them on, to the formal living room.
“What is this?” Gemma asks, pointing at the crystal chicken figurine on the mantle. It sits on a wooden base, complete with its own spotlight. Obviously Very Important.
“It’s a chicken,” I say, giving a shrug. “Maybe they have a thing for chickens. Or Colin made his money in egg farming.”
