“Yeah, smitten. Totally fucking smitten.” He looks almost sorry for me.
Chess pings me back, and I grin and answer, only half aware of Jake.
“This does not bode well for you, my friend,” he says. “Clueless shits like us should stick to hookups.”
“Not everything is about sex,” I tell him, only half believing it. I type another message to Chess.
“You’re right,” he says with a grin, as Eleanor spots us and heads our way with a look in her eye that promises she’ll be making us sweat and burn. “There’s football. Sex and football. What more could a guy want?”
Six months ago, I’d tell him nothing and give him a high five. Now? I don’t know the answer.
* * *
Chess
* * *
I’m putting on my makeup when Finn texts me.
GQ: Hey. Who are you shooting today?
I can’t decide if it’s the fact that he texted me or that I’d named him GQ in my contacts that makes my day suddenly a little sunnier. But there’s a smile tickling my lips as I pick up my phone and respond.
CC: Porter. Worchowsky. Redmond. Phillips, Mr. Nosy.
We’re actually doing two calendars. One featuring the offensive team and the other with the defensive team. Today, I’m working with guys on the defense.
GQ: I don’t know this Nosy. Careful. He might be a spy.
CC: Very cute.
GQ: I try. ;)
CC: Aw, and you do emojis too. Such a cute QB.
GQ: Am tempted to send the finger emoji…
My laughter rings out in the relative silence of my loft. I find myself unable to sit still anymore and head for my balcony.
CC: :-* Where are you?
GQ: On my way to ballet class.
Okay, what? Not what I was expecting.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Yes. Ballet.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Are we talking in circles here?
Biting my lip against a grin, I rest my forearms on my balcony rail and answer.
CC: No. I’m trying to convey my skepticism.
GQ: You know, for an independent career woman, you’re awfully old fashioned in your outlook, Ms. Copper.
CC: Fine, I’m exposing my double standards. Send a picture as proof.
GQ: So untrusting. Here’s your proof, Mrs. Doubtfire.
He sends me a selfie. Wearing a tank top and baggy gym shorts over tight compression shorts, he’s standing in front of a mirror wall with a barre bar attached to it. Jake is with him, and they’re booth making goofy faces, their tongues sticking out like Gene Simmons from KISS. Between them stands a thin and elegant, older woman in a leotard. She grins with pride, her arms around the two men as if they’re her boys.
I laugh, and tap out a quick message.
CC: My mind is officially blown.
GQ: Is that all it takes? Should have done a pirouette for the shoot.
CC: Fairly certain would have resulted in panties going up in flames when that got out.
GQ: You say the nicest things, Chester.
Since I know he’s doing it to irk me, I let “Chester” slide.
CC: I’ll bite. Why are you taking ballet classes?
GQ: Jake found out about it when he pulled a hamstring and had to limber up. It’s great for flexibility, balance… stamina.”
GQ: It’s GREAT for stamina
CC: You keep repeating that word like I’m supposed to be impressed.
GQ: Oh, you will be.
Cheeky, little… I start to type out an answer but he sends another text.
GQ: Plus, all the women in class are very eager to help me maintain my form. ;-) The happy fizz in my belly instantly goes flat, and I’m left with a sour stomach instead. If that isn’t a sign to put the brakes on this, I don’t know what is. I have plenty of male friends. None of them inspire jealousy.
CC: Don’t strain something while you’re at it.
GQ: If I do, will you give me a rubdown?
Right there. That’s flirting. I put down the phone and pace away. Who am I kidding? We’ve been flirting from the start.
James walks in the door and drops his key in the dish. He immediately spots me wearing a groove in the floorboards. “Well, someone has lost her happy face.”
“What did we agree on about reminding me to smile?” I warn, not stopping my pacing.
“To not to,” James says happily. “But then we both know I ignore most of your directives, oh mighty queen.”
The phone dings again. I eye it like a snake.
James unwinds the orange scarf wrapped around his neck. It clashes horribly with his hair and beard, but I suspect he likes that. “All right,” he says. “Who is harassing you? Is it that diva Maria? Tell her the camera can perform certain illusions, but it can’t wash the bitch out of her hair.”
I choke back a laugh. Maria is a model we’ve worked with a while back. She had insisted that I’d shot her in unflattering angles. Not true. She is gorgeous. But insecure. And a complete pain in my ass.
“Thankfully, I haven’t heard from her since I told her there was a tornado warning in effect and to look out for flying farmhouses.”
James snickers as he makes a cappuccino. “So then who is texting your knickers in a knot?”
“Finn.”
He almost stumbles, foam sloshing over the rim of the cup. “Finn? As in Finn, he’s an asshat and I totally hate him, Mannus?”
“I don’t hate him. We just got off on the wrong foot. Finn is fine.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Not what I meant.”
A slow, evil smile spreads over his face. “And now it’s Finn, eh?”
“That is his name,” I deadpan.
“Mmm…” He hands me the cup and turns to make another cappuccino for himself. “Why are you in a snit over Finn? Is he harassing you?”
“No.” I grab the phone but don’t at the screen, lest I be tempted to answer. “He’s flirting. I’m flirting. And I like it.” I flop my arm in exasperation.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone be put out by good flirting.” James sips his coffee and studies me with a frown. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”
The phone dings again.
GQ: Was that too much? Or has the possibility of massaging my fine ass made you faint?
A snort escapes me.
CC: Yes. You got me. The terror was too much.