Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Twila
Emerson’s video is, well, amazing. He’s wearing the blue shirt he showed me, the sleeves cuffed to that perfect length that shows off his forearms. His hair is messy perfection, that matching scruffy beard sparkling in the glow of his ring light.
His icy blue eyes sparkle even brighter, and the crooked grin on his face as he walks toward the camera and offers the bouquet of daisies is…
Mesmerizing.
Hell, I’ve lost count how many times I’ve watched it as the likes and comments flood in. And, shit, I need to stop and film my part.
I’ve already changed and did my makeup and hair. When Emerson sent me a picture of his bouquet earlier, I found a nearly identical one in my local grocery store’s floral department. I grab it from the refrigerator and set it on the counter before I grab my ring light stand.
Emerson filmed his video from his entryway, facing out where he stood on the front porch like I’d just opened the door for him. So, I open my front door and set the stand on my porch. It’ll film from “Emerson’s” point of view with me just inside the door.
I pull up his video in the app, then tap the icon to make a tack with it.
After choosing the same song, I film the ceiling for almost the length of his video, stopping just short enough to give me time to edit the beginning so the two videos sync perfectly.
Placing the phone on the stand, I set the timer and press the bouquet to the camera lens.
I pull the bouquet back, revealing myself as I smile widely. I hug the flowers to my chest, spin in a circle, then bury my face in the bouquet before inhaling deeply. I shoot the camera a flirty smile, then lean forward to end the recording.
It only takes me a few minutes to edit out the ceiling footage and the shot of me stopping the recording at the end, and fuck, it turns out perfect .
You can see the front doors in our shots are different, so people won’t think we’re actually together.
They’ll know I tacked his video to reveal myself.
And I managed to get the two videos lined up so well, you can barely hear the tiny blip in the music between our two halves.
After grabbing the stand from the porch and closing my door, I rush into the living room and plop down on the couch.
I nibble my lip as I stare at the blank description section.
The caption on Emerson’s video simply said, “I like you.” We didn’t discuss this part, but I shouldn’t overthink it too much.
I quickly type out, “I like you, too.”
I take a deep breath and hold it until my lungs burn. This is it. Moment of truth.
I tap the icon to post the video, then blow out the breath. There. It’s done. Now, I wait.
It’s time to see if people are paying attention, and if this whole thing will work as well for me as it has for Emerson. He’s BingBang’s darling now, and I’m a little nervous the viewers will hate the idea of us together. Like maybe I’m not good enough for him.
Sure, people have gushed about us when they simply suspected it was me, but suspecting and knowing are two very different things.
My phone rings, startling me, and I bobble it twice before getting a grip on it. Emerson’s name flashes on the screen, and when I swipe to answer it, my greeting cuts off at the sight of his face. His eyes are wide and kind of glassy, his mouth is hanging open, and he’s shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, flinching at the slight tremor in my voice.
God, I hope he didn’t hate the video.
“Jesus, Twila. That. Was. Perfect. And you look gorgeous in that dress, by the way. Like a goddess in blue silk.”
“Thank you,” I say, ducking my head as my cheeks heat with the compliment.
“What’s wrong?” he asks when I look back at the phone’s camera with an unsure expression.
“What if they hate that it’s me?”
“What? They won’t hate it. They’ll love it. Why would you even think that?”
“You’re so… you. The whole app is in love with you, and they might think I’m not good enough for their Emerson.”
“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “Most people already assume you’re my secret crush and are shipping us, hard. That’s not going to change just because we confirm it.”
“I hope you’re right,” I murmur.
“I am,” he says, his voice laced with confidence. “I mean, what’s not to love about Twila Greene?”
My lips part on a sharp inhale, and I’m sure my eyes are as wide as saucers. Emerson blinks a couple of times, then rushes on.
“I mean, you never post anything insulting or defamatory. Your videos are all great, and people enjoy watching you. Not to mention you’re gorgeous, sweet, and smart. And fucking funny. You have nothing to worry about. Hell, I should be worrying people will think I’m not good enough for you.”
I laugh at that, but there’s a fluttering in my belly at his compliments that belies my humor. I may be playing it off like his words are no big deal and slightly ridiculous, but deep down, in my bones, I feel them.
And I like them.
He said the words so naturally, so emphatically, I know he meant every one of them. They weren’t empty compliments meant to make me feel better. Emerson just told me how he feels about me, and I’m fucking ecstatic.
I manage to rein in my grin before he sees exactly how much his words affected me. Just because he thinks I’m sweet and pretty and funny doesn’t mean he likes me as more than a friend. Hell, I may not even reach that distinction in his mind.
I might just be a sweet, pretty, funny coworker. A collaborator.
“You want to read the comments together?” he asks, and I snap back to the present.
“Yes,” I say, getting up the grab my tablet from the kitchen counter before returning to the couch.
I’m glad he suggested this, because I don’t want to be alone if the trolls show up in force and start insulting me. I could call Joey, and she’d blow off Dallas in a second if I said I needed her, but watching with Emerson via a video chat just feels like the better option.
“People in the comments section of my video are already directing people to your tack. I can practically hear them squeeing,” Emerson says, the excitement in his voice palpable.
“Listen to this,” I say, my sights zeroing in on a comment on my video that’s written in all-caps. “ GREENEHOUSE IS REAL, AND I’M HERE FOR IT!”
“GreeneHouse?” Emerson asks, then nods. “I like it.”
“How does she know your last name? I didn’t even know until you told me,” I ask him, and he smiles.
“You obviously don’t follow me on other social media platforms,” he says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. Then he grins. “We’re going to have to change that now that we’re publicly crushing on each other.”
“I guess so,” I say. “I don’t really use the other sites, but I do have profiles, so I should be following you in case anyone checks. Are you following me?”
“I think so. I’m not sure,” he says slowly, and his smile tells me he’s lying.
He is following me, and he is sure.
I smile back at him before glancing down at my tablet and spotting a new comment on my video. My breath catches, and Emerson immediately grows serious, asking me what’s wrong.
“A new comment,” I say. “They’re accusing us of being liars and faking this whole thing for attention.”
“Ignore it,” he says firmly. “We knew not everyone would like us together or even believe this is real, and there’s nothing we can do but prove them wrong.”
“But they’re not wrong. Right?” I say in a quiet, shaky voice.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “They can’t prove anything, and most of our viewers believe us and are here for the romance.”
I nod, but guilt hollows out my chest. We are liars. We are faking it. Aren’t we?
Sometimes, lately, I can’t even tell, myself.