Page 74 of Just for the Cameras
“You don’t—”
“What apartment, Baker?”
I should have known that was coming.
With a sigh, I lead the way, bringing him inside the multifamily building split into six different apartments.
I lead him to the back where my door is located and reach into my bag—that he’sstillholding—and grab my keys, then unlock the door. I push it open and allow him inside, letting him take in my very plain apartment.
White walls meet sand-colored carpet. White curtains fall over the tall windows, and very minimal tan-colored furniture completes the small one-bedroom apartment. There’s nothing special about it, not many decorations, and it never bothered me until Graydon St. John stepped into my apartment. As he takes in the meager dwellings, insecurity pulsesthrough me in an instant. There’s no doubt in my mind that his place is probably ten times nicer than mine.
Embarrassed, I say, “Uh, I got rid of everything before I moved to Peru, so I really don’t have much.” If there was one thing I learned being away from Western civilization for three years, it was that we have far more than we need. Our clothes, our food, ourthings…there’s just such an excess. So I didn’t reclutter my life upon returning. I live simply, I eat simply, and it’s been…freeing. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
He sets my bag down on the kitchen counter and turns toward me. “Where is your ibuprofen?”
“In my bathroom, but you don’t need to do anything. Seriously, I can handle this.”
“Tell me to back off one more time, Baker, and see where it gets you,” he says as he charges toward my bathroom.
I guess I won’t be getting rid of him anytime soon, so I move over to my couch, where I take a seat and curl my legs into my chest, resting my bandaged wrist on top of my knees.
He reappears with a small bottle of ibuprofen, clearly not happy about it. Then he moves to my kitchen and pops open my fridge.
Crap, I haven’t gone grocery shopping recently, so it’s really bare in there.
He grumbles something under his breath and pulls his phone from his shorts pocket before tapping away on it.
“Um, what are you doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer as he continues to tap away, opens my fridge again, and then does some more tapping.
So I wait.
He goes back to my room, comes back out, and looks in my cabinets.
Then back into my bedroom.
When he returns to the living room, he tugs on the back of his neck, staring down at his phone before he pockets it and then looks up at me.
“Care to share what you were just doing?”
“Do you need to shower or anything?”
“What?” I ask.
“Do you need help showering?”
“Uh…no. I’m good. I took a shower before I left this morning.”
“You showered before a workout?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to smell like early-morning human.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is.”
He goes with it. “How’s your face?”
