Page 88 of What Remains

I set down my mobile and run my fingers through my hair, trying to “pretty it up” before I hold out the phone. I lift one shoulder, angle my head a little, and give him my best side while pouting my lips—I know, I know—then take the most naturally casual, sexiest photo I can manage.

I hit send before I can change my mind, then chew the inside of my cheek, nervously waiting for his reaction.

Easton: I don’t know what to say.

What’s that supposed to mean? Photo not up to your standards?

Easton: I have nothing to say that won’t get me in motherf’ing trouble.

I lean back in my seat and stare at his message, a warm feeling spreading limb to limb. This is us flirting again, isn’t it? Have we always been like this, and I just shelved these conversations as friendly and innocent? Maybe I wasn’t ready to open my eyes yet. But I’m pretty sure I’m ready to explore this thing happening between us now.

You know I like trouble.

While waiting for his answer, I set my mobile aside to pull up one of the last “dear diary” notes I typed Friday night from my hotel room in Dubai. The notes auto-synced to my main box from my rig, so I’ll have them forever—or at least until I decide to delete them. But I hate that Jezebel now has access to everything I wrote over the years, too.

Easton: You don’t like trouble. You ARE trouble.

How is it possible he has me feeling this way while Jezebel is on the loose with my rig and there might be an insider for her at the hotel?

I pick up my mobile, smiling ear to ear as I finally ask him for that favor I want.

Watch a movie with me later. I need another “relax break” like we had yesterday so I can numb my mind. Not up for swimming again. And before you suggest the gym, the answer is no.

Easton: I thought you wanted to be alone?

Now, yes. Later? Nope.

Easton: What about asking Mya? I’m sure she’d watch a flick with you.

Mya will just want to comfort-talk to me about what almost happened. I don’t want to think about that, which is why I need to distract myself with a movie.

Easton: Fair, but why not someone else? How about my sister? Or Ella? Why me?

You know why.

Easton: That’s what I’m afraid of.

Too late, I already saw that one, too.

Easton: AutoCorrect’s fault.

Suuuure. It’s not like you typed fuck and it corrected to duck.

Easton:

Easton: And you proved my point: You’re trouble.

Mm-hmm, sure. But since you’re so scared to be alone with me all of a sudden, we’ll watch a horror movie. Something slightly more traumatizing than what I actually experienced so I’ll be scared of fiction instead of reality.

Bubbles bounce.

And I wait.

And wait.

Aaaannnddd . . . nothing.