Page 20 of This Time It's Real
Hope flutters in my chest. He’s considering it, then. Caz Song might actually agree to this.
“Nothing too wild,” I reassure him, my heartbeat quickening. Ma always says she feels this physical tug inside her whenever she’s about to close a deal. I never understood what she meant until now; every muscle in my body is tensed, on edge. My hands feel shaky with adrenaline.
I quickly pull up the next and final slide. There, I’ve laid out a basic timeline: six months, covering the period of my internship with Craneswift, and made to coincide perfectly with when his next drama starts airing, for maximum publicity. Then there are all the ground rules, such as no mouth-to-mouth kissing, no physical contact beyond casual shoulder-bumping and occasional hugging (only when absolutely necessary), and no elaborate romantic gestures unless there’s a substantial crowd watching. Coming up with this very specific list at around three in the morning was probably one of the lowest points of my existence so far—which is really saying something.
“Nomouth-to-mouth kissing?” Caz reads, and I can tell he’s making a conscious effort not to laugh again. “As opposed to what?”
To my great annoyance, I can feel the back of my neck heating. “You know what I mean. It’s just—it’s something people say.”
“I’ve literally never heard anyone say those specific words in that order before,” he informs me, lips curving. Then, maybe catching the murderous expression on my face, he makes a halfhearted surrendering motion and says, “Okay, okay. Sure.”
“Sure?”
“I’ll do it.”
I blink, my brain lagging a little. “Wait, sorry. You’ll do . . . ?”
“This.” He nods at the laptop. “S.M.B.R.O.A.H.F.O.R.C. Though I really think we could come up with a better name.”
“Really?”
He pauses. Leans closer, until there is nothing between us but the dark, thin air, the green-apple scent of his shampoo. I instinctively take a step backward. “Yes, Eliza,” he says, his voice somber. “I really do think we need a better name.”
I’m so relieved—so stunned by my own victory—that I don’t even mind his joke.
“Then I guess . . . I guess it’s final,” I say slowly. “We’re doing this.” I extend my hand for a proper handshake to close the deal, the same time he raises his for a high five.
Wait. Who the hellhigh-fivesthis kind of thing?
“Okay . . .” I say, when neither of us moves. “Um, I guess we can . . .”
He rolls his eyes at me, but not before amusement dances over his sharp features. Then he takes my hand in his and shakes it. His skin is warm and surprisingly smooth, soft even, save for the few calluses on his palm. And despite his casual stance, his grip is firm. Ma would approve—not that it matters.
I pull away first.
“So. Okay,” I repeat, kind of dazed. This is all happening very fast. “Good talk. I—I’ll be in touch.”
I move to open the door, to run somewhere quiet and collect my thoughts, but Caz holds out an arm in front of me. He looks like he’s debating something, but after a beat, he says, “You know you could’ve chosen a different method, right?”
I blink, uncomprehending.
“You overheard my conversation the other day,” he says slowly, like he’s surprised he has to even spell this out. “Private details about my life. And you’re a writer. A good one, with what’s now a substantial audience.”
“And . . . ?”
“You could’ve blackmailed me into working with you. Threatened to write up a huge piece on my struggles with school or my family relationships or whatever unless I agreed to your conditions. You didn’t have to make this amutually beneficialarrangement.” There’s still that faint teasing edge to the way he says it, but his eyes are dark, more serious than I would’ve expected.
“That . . . never occurred to me,” I say in total honesty, surprised both by the idea itself and how fast his mind worked to produce it. Threats and forced deals must be the natural way of the world to him.
“It never occurred to you,” he repeats. Then his face smooths out, and he draws closer. “Well, too late to change your mind. We’re starting now, right?”
“Huh?”
“This is a good opportunity,” he says, gesturing to us, then to the dim, cramped closet and the stream of noise right outside it. Before I can fully grasp what he’s suggesting, he drags a hand through his already-messy hair, undoes one shirt button, and bites his lips until they look slightly swollen and red. As if . . .
As if we’ve just been making out in here.
“Well?” Caz is watching me, expectant. Completely unfazed. Almostbored.
