Grass water #3
“If it goes badly, you learn what goes badly and do the next one differently.”
That sounds suspiciously mature for a basketball player. My brain has stopped pretending to know what it actually analyses and simply accepts that Will is mature.
Maturity in men is hot. The frontal lobe is my favourite male body part.
I take another bite. “I also have to send the contract tonight, confirm the final times with everyone and figure out whether juice is professional.”
“Juice?” he asks without hesitation.
“For the shoot.”
“Coffee.” Another word without hesitation.
“I thought coffee too.” My eyes beam immediately.
“Then why are we debating juice?” His confusion is as real as mine.
“Because juice contains vitamins.” My brain decides.
“Nobody hires a marketing agency for vitamins.” Valid.
“We are not technically an agency.” Also valid.
“Then nobody hires two freshmen with a spreadsheet for vitamins either.” Very much valid.
“Jenny is very professional in baggy jeans. She makes us look creative and… well planned.”
Will’s mouth curves around his next bite. His lower lip does something irritating when he tries not to laugh. My iron level is definitely alarmingly low.
“Mike trains with us Saturday afternoon.” He leans his forearms against the island.
Veiny. He must have trained earlier. Boys with good forearms are reliable.
“He’s on the football team.” I clarify, just in case we’re talking about two different Mikes.
“Mike from the football team lifts with us every Saturday. Bring the clothes. I’ll make sure he doesn’t disappear before you get there.”
I stare at him. “I’m meeting him at one.”
“Cool. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but see you at the weight room gremlin.”
For once, I don't have a follow-up question.
He gives me a very charming smile. “Send me the shot list tonight. I’ll tell you which poses make athletes look natural and which ones make us look like assholes pretending to stretch.”
“That is specialised industry knowledge.” My lips curve.
“I charge by the hour.” Then he leans back in his chair. His forearms have been retreated into distance. A quiet no lingers inside my skull.
Talking to Will is strange. He does not make my thoughts stop— nothing short of sedation and a court order could manage that.
Half way through my, actually, his dinner, I’ve realised that I’ve actually worked out which part of my empire is on fire.
And it’s definitely not Mike’s two sets of gym shorts.
His gaze drops to the collar of my shirt, then returns to my face. “Were you at the library?”
“Jason’s.” I answer simply.
His eyebrows lift, but only slightly. “Jason?”
I take another bite of chicken. “Very hot. Excellent shoulders. Limited conversation.”
“Then why are you home?” The question is casual, but his eyes remain on mine.
“I wasn’t into it.” Another simple answer.
Will takes a drink of his water. No mockery comment about Maddy Fairfax surprisingly declined sex after arriving at a guy’s bedroom. Jason’s lamp stayed intact and I’m currently eating the healthiest dinner on the planet.
“Did he give you any trouble?”
“No. He let me leave.” I stab another piece of broccoli.
“Good.” His voice has changed slightly.
I glance at him. His expression remains solemn for exactly two seconds.
“Periods are apparently hot, though.” I inform him of my latest discovery.
Will stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“I told him I had cramps. He said periods are hot.”
Will slowly lowers the fork. “Your screening process is fucking terrible.”
I laugh so suddenly that I almost choke on the broccoli. He pushes his water towards me.
“I have excellent instincts.” I drink it again.
“You have a boy categorised as ‘Jason, excellent shoulders, limited conversation.’”
“Are periods really hot?”
“Shut up. I’m eating chicken.”
I grin openly, mischief returning to me at once. Apparently, I love tormenting this guy. So I continue, “I’m serious! Tell me. Would you hook up with someone on their period?”
Will stares at me for another second before shaking his head. “I’m not answering that.”
“Why not????” I protest violently. “I need a second opinion.”
He does not answer me. Instead he taps the edge of my container with his fork. “You’re finishing that. I’m not explaining to Lizzie why her sister passed out in my kitchen.”
“There it is. Your real motivation. Fear.”
“Pure terror.”
I take another bite. Will leans back, satisfied, and the corner of his mouth lifts again. So delicious. I want to lick his lips, then immediately shake my head at the thought. They would taste like unseasoned chicken, and would probably be very soft. Does he have lip balm on?
“When you finish,” he orders, “you’re going upstairs. You’re going to sleep.”
“I’m going to shower, and send that contract so Jenny could look at it while hating men. And send you the shot list.” I narrow my eyes.
Will watches me finish the rest of my chicken like a self-proclaimed bodyguard.
My instincts remain objectively excellent.
Not all men are terrible. Some of them are just my really good friends.