CHAPTER 12 #2
“But I do understand that the work you’re doing is important. I don’t know why anyone would volunteer to be around these fucks, but you’re brave to do it. It’s admirable that you want to protect them.”
Did he…did he just give me a compliment?
Unsure what to do or how to react, I remain calm and steady and hand him some more pellets and direct him to toss them toward the center of the lagoon. I snap a few pictures of him. I might hate the man, but if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it properly.
When he’s done, he looks up toward the crowd that’s formed, taking pictures not of the flamingos but of him.
He turns toward me, his back to the crowd.
“This is what I’m talking about,” he says.
“You’re going to end up in a fishbowl, people watching everything you do, taking pictures to share on the internet. ”
I lift my gaze to his dark one. “I understand the ramifications.”
“Yet you’re still going to do it?” he asks quietly.
I glance behind him, at the chicken-wire wall that separates the visitors from the flamingos, the painted wall that’s supposed to look like a natural habitat off to the right. They deserve so much more than this. If they have to live in a fishbowl, why can’t I for a moment in time?
Bringing my attention back to him, I say, “Yes.”
He nods. “Okay, just…just be warned, Maple.”
The sincerity in his voice almost makes it seem like he cares.
But that can’t be, right? He can’t possibly be caring toward me.
I let my eyes trail over him for a short moment, his eyes connecting with mine as well.
What are you thinking inside that head, Graydon St. John?
Snapping away from our eye contact, he turns back around, only to find Lester inches away. “Mother of fuck,” he squeals, quickly moving behind me and using my body as a shield. “Get me the hell out of here.”
Chuckling, I lead him out of the habitat, hoping and praying that someone caught the Matrix-like move he just made to scramble away from an innocent bird.
I’ll be scouring social media tonight, hoping the algorithm finds me.
I slide into my tub, the hot water seeping into my worn-down muscles as I lower myself to the bottom, my limbs straining, begging to be put out of their misery.
Candles are lit.
Folklore is playing on my Bluetooth speaker.
And there’s a glass of wine waiting to be consumed while I pick up my phone and pull up Instagram.
I click on the profile for Flock and Tackle while the Epsom salts do their job.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
Over five hundred thousand followers. That’s…that’s insane.
After one picture.
That’s all it took.
One picture.
Imagine the impact one picture could make if it was geared toward the right thing…like bringing awareness to flamingos.
That’s exactly what I’m going to try to do.
I click on the post button, then pull up the pictures that I took today of Graydon. God, he’s such a large man. He looks like a giant compared with the birds. I scroll through to find which one would be best. All are great options.
I narrow it down to two: one of him with his back toward the camera while looking off at the flamingos, and then one of him in profile, squatting down and tossing a pellet.
Unsure what to go with, I send him a text with both pictures.
Maple: Trying to decide which picture to post tonight. Do you have a preference?
I set my phone down on the tray that runs from one side of the tub to the other and pick up my glass of wine. I lean my head back and stare at the lights dancing across my ceiling from my light orb—highly recommend.
I’d never been a bath kind of girl until I had a hard day at the zoo and needed to ease my muscles.
I talked to Everly about it, and she set me up with all the things that I would need when it came to relaxing.
Spending years in Peru living in a permanent tent makes you really appreciate luxurious things such as a bathtub… a nice glass of wine…running water.
My phone pings with a message, so I set my wine down and pick up my phone.
Graydon: Don’t care.
I roll my eyes. God, why did I even ask? He’s so not helpful.
My phone pings again.
Graydon: Maybe the one of me squatting down.
I snort.
Maple: I thought you didn’t care.
Graydon: I don’t, but if I have to choose, the squatting one.
Maple: Didn’t say you had to choose.
Graydon: Why are you testing my patience?
Maple: Unsure.
I open Instagram again, but my phone pings with another text.
Graydon: Are you going to be able to work out tomorrow morning with me? It was uncomfortable watching you walk today.
My expression falls flat, because this freaking jerk.
Maple: Yes, I can work out with you tomorrow.
Graydon: If you get hurt, I’m not responsible.
Maple: I’m not going to get hurt.
Although my hamstrings are so tight that I worry if I bend forward, they might snap, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Graydon: Maybe we’ll do something different.
Maple: Do whatever you want, just know, I can hang.
Graydon: Sure.
Maple: Was that said with sarcasm?
Graydon: Really up to you to decipher.
Maple: You just keep finding ways to irritate me, don’t you?
Graydon: You tell me.
Maple: God, you’re so infuriating.
Graydon: Yet you keep texting me.
Maple: Because I was trying to be nice and post a picture of you that you thought was flattering. Next time, I’ll make sure to post an extremely unflattering picture.
Graydon: Good luck finding one.
Oh yeah…challenge accepted.
I pull up the internet on my phone and type in his name, then go straight to images. Immediately it’s an inundation of shirtless pictures of Graydon.
Dear God.
Him shirtless and in the gym.
Shirtless on the field wearing just his football pants with his hands on his hips.
Shirtless and sitting on the ground, looking out toward the stands.
Shirtless at a photo shoot.
Pictures of his biceps.
His butt.
His intimidating stature.
I pick up my wine and take a large gulp as I scroll and scroll…and scroll.
Even when he’s angry, he looks hot.
There isn’t one single thing I could use for fodder.
How is that even possible?
It takes me at least ten pictures of smiling to get one with my eyes open, and he’s over here, taking candids like he’s a GQ model attempting to sell you his grass-stained white football pants.
My phone dings with a text.
Graydon: Trying to find an unflattering picture?
I gasp in annoyance.
Maple: As a matter of fact, yes, and I’m just trying to decide which one to send you.
Graydon: Send them all.
Annoyed, I save a few pictures of him that are not the least bit unflattering and send them to him in a text.
Maple: Your muscles are too big. Very unflattering.
There, he can chew on that and rot.
I pick up my glass of wine, take a large sip, and then wait for his message. It takes longer than I was expecting, but then he pings back with a text…and a picture.
I sit up in the tub, pull up the picture, and feel my jaw drop.
It’s him, in his bed, shirtless and showing off his chest and abs. The sheets are just below his belly button, and his hand is resting behind his head, making his bicep pop. The man is carved, so perfectly proportioned that it’s almost hard to look at.
And his comment…
Graydon: Never had any complaints before.
Yeah…can’t imagine he would.
My mouth goes dry, and I tip the rest of my wine back as he texts again.
Graydon: Feel free to use that picture if the others aren’t satisfactory.
Maple: The others I have are fine.
Graydon: Then feel free to use that picture for personal use.
I purse my lips together—the audacity.
And yes, I might have felt a dull throb erupt between my legs from the sight of him in his bed.
And yes, I might have wondered what it would be like if he tugged those sheets down another inch.
And perhaps I thought about feeling his abs, running my fingers over them just for scientific purposes.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll use it for anything.
Maple: Already deleted it.
Ha, take that, you—ping.
Graydon: Here’s another, then. Don’t be scared to keep it.
My eyes nearly bug out when I see that he lowered the sheet an inch, making my mouth water from the sight of him.
Why?
Why is he doing this?
Between the compliment he gave me today, the concern he showed, and now this…
I could not be more confused. What is he getting at?
Is he trying to get on my good side to get me out of this PR relationship he so desperately doesn’t want to be in?
In any case, I need to have my defenses up, because I don’t trust what’s going on.
And after the way the back of my neck heated up from the picture he sent, I don’t trust myself to not react stupidly either.
Maple: Not needed, I have my own stash of photos that keep me very occupied.
Graydon: Same…
Ugh, gross.
I exit the text thread and then go back to Instagram. I click on the side-profile picture where he’s squatting down and choose that one as the picture to post. I make a caption that says, “Find someone who looks at you the way Graydon looks at flamingos,” and then I post the picture.
There, done.
I set my phone down once again, only for it to ping.
Knowing exactly who it is, I think about not looking, but curiosity wins.
Graydon: Surprised you didn’t put “The way Graydon looks at me” in the caption.
What is happening?
What has gotten into him?
Maple: Well, then, that would require a picture of you snarling.
Graydon: Clearly, you haven’t seen me look at you enough.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare down at his text because…is he drunk? That’s a very unlikely comment coming from him. Is he…is he flirting?
No, he can’t be flirting.
There’s no way.
Ping.
Graydon: Because it’s not a snarl, it’s a grunt of displeasure.
My face falls flat, and I toss my phone on the ground.
Ass.