Page 14 of One Pucking Secret
The room clears out with the shuffling of chairs and murmured goodbyes, leaving behind a stillness broken only by the click-clack of Chloe’s shoes as she approaches. She stands close, too close, and her scent—a mix of floral and vanilla—conjures memories of that night in her dorm room better left buried.
“Before you take off, Mr. Banks,” she says, her eyes scanning a clipboard, as if it’s more interesting than our past. “Let’s talk specifics about your volunteer work.”
“Already covered. Since I moved to town, I’ve been volunteering at the youth center in downtown LA.”
“Really?” Genuine surprise flickers across Chloe’s face, softening the businesslike facade.
“Yeah, I’ve been heavily involved in youth centers ever since I graduated from high school.”
“I didn’t know you were involved in that kind of thing.”
“Guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, the words sharp like a slapshot.
“Clearly.” She concedes, tapping the pen against the clipboard. “We’ll need to schedule a photographer to cover one of your volunteer shifts then.”
“Absolutely not.” The words burst from me, fierce and immediate. “Those kids aren’t props, and I’m not plastering their faces all over social media for publicity. It’ll make them uneasy, and even if their parents sign consent forms, I refuse to exploit them like that.”
Chloe’s lips press into a thin line, considering, weighing. Then, slowly, she nods. “Okay, then. How about you give me your schedule, and I’ll come myself? Just me and my cellphone. Less intimidating.”
“Fine,” I agree, relieved but wary. “But keep it low key, alright?”
“Low key is my middle name,” she says with a smirk.
“Prove it,” I tease.
She raises an eyebrow in response before turning on her heel, leaving me alone in the silence of the now-empty room.
I chuckle as I prepare to leave. Whoever this new Chloe Reed is, I’m looking forward to getting to know her.
Chapter 5
Chloe
“Post a picture,” Itell Wyatt over the phone, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“Of what?” His voice is groggy, yet edged with that familiar defiance. There’s a rustle on the other end, the sound of sheets and sleep being cast aside.
“Are you still in bed?”
“Of course I am! The sun’s barely even up.” His irritation is clear, and I glance at the clock. It’s just after 6:45 a.m. on this early Thursday morning.
“I figured you’d be up early for practice,” I tease.
“Practice starts late today,” he mutters. “Decided to sleep in for once.”
An idea hits me. “Why don’t you snap a picture of the sunrise then?”
“Absolutely not,” he grumbles. “My life is not a photo op.”
“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Banks.” My words are ice over a steel resolve. “Remember our agreement?”
There’s a pause, a crackling silence that stretches thin over the line. Then, “Fine. But for every post you want on my feed, you owe me an answer. One question about you—no lies, no omissions. And call me Wyatt, since it’s clear you remember me.”
A memory flickers, unbidden— the night we hooked up, when laughter was easy, and curiosity filled the spaces between us. We asked each other so many questions that night, a connection sparking, only to be severed before it could fully take hold. The way my heart skips now, knowing he remembers too, is infuriating.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my tone cool. “But sure, I’ll answer your questions.”
“Good. Check your feed first thing tomorrow morning.”
