Page 5 of The Photo
N Adams:
See for yourself…
As soon as the message pings, a photo pops onto the screen and loads into view. A foot. His foot. Five toes. His toes. A crisp white cotton sheet surrounds the ankle. I stretch the image with the pads of my fingers, zooming in on each toe. They aren’t abnormal at all. Long and manly as far as toes go, with nothing that gives me cause for concern. Like he cares what I think. I titter with only my head shaking lightly.
“Did he send you a dick pic?” Chelsea is too close; her chin is resting on my shoulder like an excited puppy.
“No!” I hold the screen to my nose for closer inspection. “It’s his foot. I’m guessing one of them is the broken toe.” I tap the image to reduce the mega zoom. “They all look fine.”
“This is getting weird.” She shuffles away.
“No, it isn’t. He’s only confirming he doesn’t have hideous feet.”
“Why does he give a shit what Rowan Hudson from Dublin thinks when Camilla, the Cuban hottie, can suck his toes without remorse?”
She has a point. I shrug as the shiny bubble of magic pops up, covering me in disappointment. “It’s probably his security guy or something. I bet they’re playing a sick joke to get me back for messaging him.”
N Adams:
Was it that bad? Do the men in Dublin have better looking feet than I do? I’m glad my career isn’t sandal modeling. *wink emoji face* N
He wrote Dublin. OMIGOD. Noah has checked out my profile. “Oh, no—my profile picture.” I wince. “I haven't changed it back from Halloween when we dressed as terrible vampires.” That night, Chelsea and I polished off a bottle of vodka while we were getting ready. The photo was less than flattering, with fake blood and cheap wigs. You can just imagine the fright.
Rowan Hudson:
The toes look normal. I don’t see many feet here because it rains a lot, but I’d give them a stellar 9 out of 10. As for my scary profile picture… blame it on vodka and a pushy friend. R
N Adams:
Just a 9? What criteria is this based on? There’s more than one photo of you, Rowan. I like the vampire fangs though, very sexy. I see you’re into photography. N
Holy hell! He used my name. He typed the word sexy. “Pinch me,” I whisper. Chelsea throws a fist into my bicep. “Aaaow! What the hell?”
“What? You said punch me,” she questions, her brows pulled tight.
“Why would I ask you to punch me? I saidpinchme.” I over enunciate the key word.
Chelsea nods. “Either way, the pain is real and so are the messages from lover boy.”
Rowan Hudson:
Are you sensitive about the foot ranking? No foot deserves a 10. I’m surprised you flicked past the horrific wig and unprofessional blood placement. I’m at college studying photography. R
N Adams:
I saw past the wig and fake blood. I demand to know how a foot can achieve full marks in your strict ranking system. It’s my job to impress, and it appears you aren’t. N
We’re messaging each other. Like instantly, in real time. Back and forth. Him and I. Holy fuck, I must be dreaming. I don’t hesitate with my response, just in case I wake up and miss his reply.
Rowan Hudson:
A 9 is a very respectable score, Mr. Adams. You should be pleased. My foot is probably a 7.
N Adams:
I can’t imagine your foot being less than a 10.
Is he flirting with me? I take a minute to breathe. Then, just as I start to reply, he sends another message.
