He wants to take semi-naked sexy pics? I’m scandalized in the very best way and I’m here for it. Having a string of scandalous photos of Pete in my phone sounds pretty fantastic, even if he is still wearing all his clothes. And it’s something a real girlfriend could have, so I don’t think it’s off-limits.
But when he aims the phone right at my face, I realize that’s not what he has in mind. “Uh, what the hell? I must look like a mess right now.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the words wrap around me like a warm blanket. “And now you have a pic of yourself with a natural, post-exercise glow.”
I laugh as I look at the shots he took. He’s right. My cheeks are rosy, and my eyes are bright. An outsider would be hard-pressed to determine if I’ve just come in from a five-mile run or if the glow on my skin is from the tonguefucking my boyfriend just gave me.
I mean, my fake boyfriend.
The guy I totally don’t have feelings for.
The one I’m just having fun sexy times with until this mess at school is over or I graduate, at which point I totally won’t miss him or think about him or crave his touch.
Yeah, totally.
I shake my head and reach for my phone so I can upload the photo, but that’s when I notice the shadow over one side of my face. “Oh, crap. Can you take a few more before the freshly-fucked glow fades?” I asked.
“Because it would be so tragic if I had to put my mouth on you again,” he teases.
We scooch over a few feet so that we’re still lying on the floor, but the lighting is much better. Pete takes some more shots before handing the camera back to me. I snap a few selfies as Pete leans into the frame. These are cute candid photos and if we were actually dating, I might think about framing them or making a cute little picture album.
But we’re not, so I don’t.
Instead, I sit up and tug my leggings on before resuming my spot on the couch. Pete settles back into his space, too, and if it’s awkward for a moment, we both pretend it isn’t. That makes sense. We’re getting good at pretending. A little too good, at least in my case.
“Which background do you like better?” he asks, breaking our silence. He shows me his computer screen and toggles between two colors.
“I like the blue, but I think the words are much easier to read on the yellow. So, if they’re taking notes, I’d go with that one.”
“Yellow it is,” he says, tapping a few keys.
Since he’s getting back to work, I do the same. My email inbox is getting crowded because submissions are coming in for next week’s Dumbass column, but I’ll tacklethose later. Right now, all my attention is on the message from Garret Leveque, Leslie’s assistant atPrentiss.
“You ok over there?” Pete asks, probably sensing the tension as it rolls off me.
“Garrett emailed me back,” I explain.
“That’s great. Does he like what you sent? I loved the piece about the rage room.”
“He likes that one best, too, and he’s going to pass it on to Leslie, which is good, but?—”
“Good? That’s fucking amazing, Claire. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I’m still blown away by how excited Pete gets about my writing. My article could have come between us, but it hasn’t. So many people here judged me for writing it, but Pete never did. I know the content bothered him, but he never attacked my right to tell my story. And now he’s become my biggest cheerleader. That’s why I hate to dampen his enthusiasm with a dose of reality.
“Garrett wants more pieces like the expose, and Leslie does, too. That’s great and all, but they don’t exist. I like to think I’ve written some meaningful work in the past few years, but nothing pushed the boundaries the way that article did, and that’s the kind of stuff they want to see.”
Pete reaches for me, and even though it doesn’t make any sense, I crawl into his lap. His hug is just what I need, and as I breathe in the scent of him, I feel grounded, calmer.
“Listen to me,” he says, taking my face into his hands. “Your writing is powerful, Claire, and it doesn’t matter if you’re writing the kind of stuff that gets schools to change their policies or if you’re writing about the benefits of having your colors done, or whatever it’s called. Your writing is amazing. If they can’t see that, fuck ‘em.”
If only it were that simple.
“You don’t get it,” I tell him. “Don’t get me wrong, your loyalty is hitting me right in the feels, but giving the middle finger toThe Prentiss Reportwon’t pay my bills or feed my soul. Writing that article felt so good, and you probably hate hearing that, but it’s true. That’s what I need more of, but scandals aren’t popping up all over campus.”
His eyes shutter for a moment. “Something will come up. I know it will. But don’t go looking for trouble, okay? And please don’t write an article about Ollie and his MyFans account.”
I straighten, pulling back from his embrace. “Pete, you know I wouldn’t do that. I’m not in the business of betrayal. When I find a story, I won’t be doing it for personal gain. I thought you knew me better than that.”
