Page 68 of So Not My Thing
He sounded way more uncertain than I’d expect from a guy who had been photographed with major and minor celebrity girlfriends over the years, much less this month.
“It was nothing,” I reassured him. “Anneke has nothing to worry about.”
“Anneke?” his eyes crinkled in confusion, and it was so adorable it made my stomach dip. “Oh, did you see us on her Instagram?”
“What? No.” The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was stalking him on social media. “Chloe mentioned something the paper ran in the People section, that’s all. You were at a benefit together? Anyway, it’s all good.”
“Anneke is an old friend of mine. We’renotdating. I get credit for more Hollywood hookups than I deserve.”
“No judgment here,” I said. Not judging him, anyway. But I’d judged that I was definitely not his type.
“I promise that of the two women I’ve had real relationships with in the last ten years, one of them has never been seen in a paparazzi photo and the other was identified as a friend I was grocery shopping with when one of the tabloids ran a picture of us coming out of the market in our sweats.”
“Oh. That’s...oh.”
“Does that matter?” he asked softly.
Yes. No. Did it matter to him whether it mattered to me? I needed to say something fast before the silence said something I didn’t mean it to. “No, it doesn’t matter.”
“Did you research me on Instagram?”
“No.” I was thankful for the dim light so he couldn’t see me turning red at telling such a bold-faced lie.
“I looked you up. I wondered what it had been like for you over the last twelve years.”
This made my stomach churn harder. He’d been curious enough to look into me? It made me feel slightly naked, even though I knew exactly what he would have found. I’d kept any mention ofStarstruckor that meme or video off my social media accounts. My personal accounts were private, and my public accounts mostly showed properties I’d found for my clients or pictures of places and food in New Orleans to show that I knew the city inside and out. Sometimes I put myself in the pictures to give clients a sense of connection to me. But I made it about the work.
“I didn’t find much,” he said, ducking his head like he was trying to see my face better. “Only proof that if you weren’t already my property agent, I’d want to hire you.”
“Lucky it worked out that way, then.”
“I was hoping for more. Not that you owe it to me. But I was hoping to see more about what your non-work self is like.”
This was veering too much into the personal territory where that dance had almost taken us. “Nothing to tell, really. Anyway, I need to”—escape—“head up and make some dinner. Thanks for the window upgrade. They look good.” I made for the kitchen door.
“Ellie? Stop for a second?”
I did, turning to face him.
“For better or worse, you and I are going to be connected for a long time,” he said. “It could just be as landlord and tenant, but I’d love it to be as friends. Could we go get dinner and talk? Possibly about nothing work-related?”
He might want to dig into our shared past to satisfy his curiosity, but I didn’t. I’d created a healthy distance from all the trauma of the bullying and shame, and I’d never once benefitted from reliving those memories. Now more than ever, I wanted distance from them because it was too easy these days to remember how much I had adored Miles Crowe before I’d hated him.
“That’s sweet, but I need to pass. Good luck with all the remodeling.” I moved toward the kitchen again.
“Wow, not even a raincheck, just a straight up pass?” He sounded curious, not mad.
“Yeah. Landlord.” I pointed to myself. “Tenant.” I pointed to him.
“Got it.” His jaw tightened. Then he sighed. “Will you at least promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Please consider this your space as much as it was before. Come down here any time, wander through any time. I’m never going to be doing something I have to hide, and I’ll feel better knowing I haven’t displaced you. I’ll put it in writing if it makes you feel better,” he said with a quick grin. “And if you ever want to wander in for a cold beer with a friend, I’m here for that.”
He wasn’t going to feel better unless I promised to drop in, so I nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll wander in if the spirit moves me.”
I went upstairs to make a quick chicken stir fry for dinner, considering the conversation as I dug ingredients from the fridge. I didn’t want to start down the road that had opened up when Miles and I had danced at Miss Mary’s party. I was already verging too dangerously close to the crush I’d had on him back then, and Miles might be attracted to me right now, but I was nothing like the women he’d dated in LA. I didn’t have their level of glam. It would take airbrushing and a full-time makeup artist for me to reach their level of beauty. He’d get bored. Or a better offer.
