Page 57 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I give an exploratory tug, inching forward enough that I know the scenario is physically possible. When I let go, it is an act of pure self-preservation.
“Okay,” he says, and puts his hat back on. He stands to leave, and I follow him to the door, leaning against the doorframe as he steps back into his shoes.
“Speaking of mutually beneficial arrangements,” I say, “why won’t you help Diego with the Built Box stuff?”
He straightens, brows low. “Are they trying to renegotiate?”
“What?”
“I went over their contract with him. It was pretty boilerplate, not too different from agreements I’ve signed in the past. They were definitely undervaluing him, though. That’s why I pushed him to require the coupon code and a cut of sales.”
“I had no idea. I—” I shake my head at myself. “He told me that you hadn’t been interested, back when they asked about you. So I assumed—”
His lips quirk at the word. “That I was just being a dick?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should have asked.”
He nods, expression thoughtful, and his posture changes. He brings his hands to the top of his head, the movement causing his T-shirt to pull against his pectorals, flaring out his lats, his biceps bunching. Does he have any idea what even the slightest shift does to his body?
“I don’t want Diego to think he’s gotten something because of me. He earned that sponsorship. Built Box didn’t even connect us until after they reached out to him.”
“He made it seem like you were a major part of the draw.”
“They got more enthusiastic after he told them that he worked for me. That knocked some of the wind out of his sails, and…” He shakes his head. “It’s just business for them, but he was questioning himself after that, why they wanted him, if it had all been a scheme to get to me. I hated seeing it.” He tugs on the rim of his cap. “It made me not want to reward them with my presence.”
I hug my arms around myself, lest I launch myself at him. It’s too much. His reasoning, his care, his stupid lats. I have to laugh; it’s either that or lick his face. “That was quite the journey. You started out noble”—hot—“then got spiteful”—alsohot—“with just a touch of ego at the end.” Back-on-the-sexy-bite-trainhot. “Would you mind if I plotted that into a unit? It would be a great fit for character arcs.”
“Jesus, Hayes,” he grumbles, but he’s half smiling. “Is your brain ever off?”
“Not if I can help it. That’s when the invasive thoughts close in.”
His expression goes serious. “Is that more of your admitting-weakness thing?”
“I’m sure you’re loving it,” I tease, recalling his sour comment at the gym earlier.
“No,” he says firmly. “Not for you.”
Heat floods my face and chest. I’m desperate to ask him why, while also recognizing how thoroughly any number of responses from him would undo me. The silence that follows is heavy.
He pushes his hands into his pockets and goes down the steps. “Goodnight, Lady Bird.”
“That does not get to be your parting shot!” I follow him out. He’s already on the gravel path I weeded. “What even was that?”
He throws his head back in a laugh, and if that’s as close as I get to drawing a roar out of him, then so be it. I feel it in my bones. “You don’t celebrate the legacy of Lady Bird Johnson? Some Texan you are.”
“I’m a transplant. And,duh. I know she was First Lady.”
“Look her up. I think you’ll agree that the comparison fits.”
“Hmph. Does that mean I’m no longer queen?”
His eyes glitter in recognition as he continues down the path, walking backward. “Hayes, please. This isAmerica. Pretty sure we fought a war so we didn’t have to acknowledge royalty.”
21
THURSDAY EVENING, HEATHERand Mark post up in the dining room to chat with Grant. While they won’t be of much use as far as info about elementary-level stuff, our teaching program required that we intern at a middle school as well as the high school where we ultimately worked. The two of them had been deeply involved in the junior high’s extracurriculars, whereas I saw much of my free time that semester divided between trying to convince myself that I hadn’t made a multi-thousand-dollar mistake in pursuing my master’s degree and in waiting rooms, hoping to find out what was causing my abdominal pain. At least I got an answer; for the hours they put in, all Mark and Heather had to show for it was an abiding hatred forAnnieand a sneaking suspicion that very few seventh graders were wearing deodorant.
They’ve been talking for the better part of an hour, and when I looked in earlier, Grant was taking notes. He still hasn’t talked to Ian about his change in plans, but it says a lot about his commitment that he’s taking the process so seriously.
