Page 14 of Just for the Cameras
Not that I really care.
I don’t care how people feel about me.
I don’t need to win over their affection or friendship. It’s better if theyhate me. Actually, I prefer it since it means I don’t have to talk to people I don’t care about.
She opens the door to the building in front of us, and I grab it from her, allowing her to step under my arm and into the building.
Her eyes widen in surprise at the gesture, confirming that I’ve been an asshole. She didn’t expect something so simple as holding a door open for her.
And I hate to admit it, but that makes me feel…kind of shitty.
I’m the first to acknowledge, I’m not the nicest guy.
I’m grumpy.
I’m hard to work with.
And I have a truckload of baggage that no one wants to unpack, leaving me grouchy most of the time.
But not holding a door open? I’m not that big of an ass, right?
She slips past me and Jesus, for someone who works with bird shit on the daily, she smells fucking amazing. Like so fucking good that I find myself wanting to get another whiff.
She heads into the building, her braid swinging across the top of her shoulders, and I can see that she wants to thank me, but instead, she snags two Nalgene water bottles full of ice water off a table.
As she hands me one, she says, “Here. In case you get thirsty. You can leave it here or you can take it home with you. Just know that if you forget it, it’s the water fountain for you.”
I take the bottle with the zoo logo etched on it and my name scrolled across a piece of tape right below the logo. Whereas mine is brand new, Maple’s looks like it’s been through hell and back, with scrapes and gouges across the top, bottom, and sides.
“This way,” she says, directing me out a door and to a two-person golf cart with a flatbed on the back. She takes a seat and nods at me. “Hop in.”
As if it’s that easy.
I move to the other side of the cart and bend down to try to fit mybody inside the damn thing. My shoulders nearly take up the entire width of the bench seat, my head kisses the top, and my right leg has to hang off the side because there is absolutely no way I can squeeze into the minimal space provided.
When she glances in my direction, her eyes widen in surprise before they find humor in my situation and she stifles a laugh.
“Okay, taking note that I’ll have to ask for the Gator to better accommodate your size.”
I adjust, gripping the hood and attempting to get comfortable, but there’s really no use.
“Can we just walk to the flamingo exhibit?”
“Normally,” she says. “But today, I have to give you a tour of the zoo.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I would think so since you’re probably going to have to talk about it at some point, but if you’re confident enough to just wing interviews without an education on the topic, then I’m more than happy to hop out and walk to the flamingos.”
Smart-ass.
“Just drive,” I huff, hanging on to the cart and my water bottle as she jolts it into motion.
Jesus Christ.
We make a left-hand turn, tilting on two wheels as she directs the cart toward the front of the zoo, braking haphazardly by a rather large, blooming bush.
Visitors move in and out of view along the walkways, some with strollers and freshly purchased stuffed animals clutched in children’s arms, others exhausted and decked out in reusable cups dangling from their necks by lanyards. It’s giving amusement park vibes without the rides.
