Presley’s chest rose and fell with quick inhalations. “Anyway, I have a couple of bigger-name followers, including actress Lucy Layne.”
What the hell was she talking about? “The reality TV star?” He didn’t live in a cave.
She nodded, looking so happy with herself. “Yeah. Sometimes she reposts my stuff. Like today!”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word, unsure why when he was in the claws of apprehension he still found her cute.
She grinned wider. “I woke up with the intention of making the most of this trip and sharing it all on my socials. Starting this morning.”
He stepped closer. “With a photo?” What did this have to do with him?
“Funny thing. It was just supposed to be me and some French toast. You remember I made you French toast?”
He smirked, resisting the urge to grab the phone. “Fondly.”
“Well, who knew you were in the background?”
“Okay.” Again, he drew the word out. He was a zombie in the morning. He’d just woken up, wondering why his cabin smelled so damn good.How was that only this morning?
Presley put a hand on her chest. “I mean, Ididn’t.I wouldn’t post someone’s photo without permission or knowing them.”
“Show me the phone, Presley.”
She started backing up again without even lifting her feet, like she was moonwalking away from him. “The thing is, normally I get lots of likes. People like my content. A thousand is pretty average, but sometimes, usually when Lucy shares in her stories or on some of my TikToks, that number is bigger. I’m not actually an influencer. I just like to share stuff.”
His stomach crunched like the gravel path under his feet. “Presley.”
“Once I posted a picture of my matching manicure and pedicure at this place that has wicked deals. It got a ridiculous amount of attention. They thanked me for the increase in business with two more freebies. Funny, right?”
It didn’t feel funny. “Presley I-don’t-know-your-middle-name-but-I’d-use-it-if-I-did Ayers.”
She gave a high-pitched laugh, and damn it, that was cute, too. “Marie. It’s Presley Marie Ayers.”
Beckett fought his grin. “I’ll remember that for next time. Phone, Presley.”
She turned it around. There she was, smiling, no makeup, beyond gorgeous with her hair all piled on her head, a plate of the best French toast he’d ever had in her hand. He leaned closer. He was in the background. He’d just rolled off the couch and stood up, trying to remember why he was on the couch. She’d caught him mid-stretch. His Henley had ridden up, showing his stomach, and his muscles were bunched, his head down a bit like he was being coy or modest or some shit. Several comments were visible under the picture.
Who’s the Hot Mountain Man?
Yes please. I’d have that for breakfast any morning.
Hello. I’ll take the nummy dish behind you, please.
What the hell? Nummy dish? Who talked like that?
The next person had a blue check mark. Lucy Layne.
Sexy Morning Mountain Man FTW. Get it girl.
Get what? Jesus. People were forward.
He looked at Presley. “What’s an ‘FTW’?”
Her shoulders sank. “For the win.”
“This doesn’t seem so bad.” He leaned closer, his brows shooting up when he saw “view all 2,073 comments.” “Who are all the comments from?” Was his voice squeaky?
She shrugged. “It’s really not that many. I have just under fifty thousand followers. So what’s that? Like four percent?”
