Chapter 4 #2
My heart lurches as my focus hooks on him—the loose, goofy confidence he exudes as he scans the room, absorbing all the energy and radiating it back like he’s the goddamn sun.
He smiles and nods at the people milling about, then his gray eyes lock with mine, something sparking in them as our gazes hold, his lopsided smile creasing his cheeks to reveal a single dimple.
To my absolute horror, my eyes take on a mind of their own, skimming down his body, bouncing first to the ground and then slowly making their way up.
He’s wearing dark jeans that are clearly infatuated with his ass and thighs, which have developed defined muscles over the years, and a navy crewneck sweatshirt that reads YALE GRANDMA .
The hem of it lifts as he raises a hand to his hair—raking his fingers through the perfectly mussed locks—revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband, a faint line of hair centered between the ridges of his hip bones.
My breath catches, a sudden, frustrating heat sparking across my skin. It’s only when his smile grows that I realize my damn mouth is hanging open. I slam it shut so hard I give myself a headache.
No. Absolutely not. I will not be undone by an ironic sweatshirt and an endearing smile. I fix my face into a brutal scowl.
He walks toward me with the confidence of a man who…
Honestly, a metaphor is kind of superfluous.
He walks forward with the confidence of a man, parking himself in front of me, hands shoved in his pockets and smile fading into a look that’s nearly bashful as he searches my face.
I pray my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is softer than it is in his videos, still low and rough, but lacking the sharp edge. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Cooper,” I respond with a brisk nod, laying brick after brick of coldness in front of me until there’s a sturdy wall of ice. “Wish I could say it’s good to see you, but…” I gesture vaguely.
The corner of his mouth twitches up toward a smile, but my glare scolds it back into a straight line.
He clears his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before ducking his head and dragging a hand across the back of his neck.
“The feeling might not be mutual”—his gray eyes flick back to mine, a reckless spark glinting there that makes me furious—“but I genuinely am glad to see you .” He rocks back on his heels, letting his tripwire grin win out.
My heart stutters, then kicks into overdrive.
It must be the rage that’s making my pulse pound and heat lick along my skin.
I make a show of looking over my shoulders, then lift out of my seat to glance over his before fixing him with a bland expression.
“Don’t think any cameras are rolling yet, Cooper. You can cut the simp act.”
He laughs—a big, bold sound that vibrates through me, and my fingers grip the edge of my chair like I’ll float away without something to hang on to.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” he says, humor roaming free across his face.
“Not for a second.”
“Let’s get a move on,” William says with a raised voice, entering the room with effortless authority. He claps his hands, and the already bustling crew picks up the pace.
Cooper’s expression shifts, jaw working like he has something important to say to me and he needs to taste different words before deciding which are right. I look away, attention landing on Aida, my safe spot.
“Let’s get to places and setup,” she says, ushering us over to the shiny chrome table.
I pull out one of the chairs, its hairpin legs creating a shrill sound along the tile that makes Cooper flinch. Satisfied at catching a whiff of weakness from him, I settle into the tufted vinyl seat, crossing my legs and situating myself on the sparkly green cushion.
Aida goes through a quick run of show, and I diligently ignore Cooper despite feeling his eyes on me.
When an assistant sets down the hot dogs, I accidentally spare him a glance, and the intensity of his gaze makes my breath scrape my throat.
I purse my lips, looking away again with an air of boredom that’s the complete opposite of the swelling nerves popping in my chest.
“Any questions, Rylie?” Aida asks. “Do you feel all set? I’m sure you’ve done interviews like this before, so it’s probably second nature.”
I make a mental note to call her a traitor later for speaking to him with a voice of kindness and respect.
“I’m great, thank you so much,” he replies, flashing that dimple. It prods at something feral in me, making me want to scratch it off his face.
“Great. Places, everyone,” Aida calls.
“Glad the princess is settled. I’m all good too, thanks for asking,” I grumble. Aida at least rolls her eyes instead of ignoring me. I’m surprised by the bark of laughter from across the table.
“Did you just call me princess ?” Cooper asks, his grin lazy and dangerous.
“Yes. Does that offend you?” I ask, a hopeful lift to my voice. “Or would you prefer baby girl?”
He laughs again, eyes crinkling. “Princess will do just fine.”
My lips curl but I force them into an acrid smile. “Whatever you say, baby girl.”
Aida starts the countdown to our live, and Cooper shakes himself, slipping on the cool mask he wears in most of his videos.
When Aida gets to three, she stops talking, ticking the seconds off on her fingers before pointing to me.
I slip on my own facade, an apathetic expression not far off from my real self, and look at the camera like it’s a tedious younger sibling.
“I’m Eva Kitt,” I say without feeling or energy, my trademark vibe.
“And welcome to Sausage Talk , where fun in the bun is guaranteed. We have a semi-special guest for today’s meat and greet, and his name is…
” The neon MEAT & GREET sign is lowered into frame, and I ignore it, making a show of checking my notes, thumbing through a few pages and running my finger across some lines.
“Rylie Cooper. And he… he…” Slowly and with a thoroughly disenchanted energy, I rifle through more papers, letting the silence linger.
“I host a podcast about deconstructing toxic masculinity and post stupid videos on the internet,” Cooper says, voice low, a smile in it.
I drag my heavy gaze up to him. He adjusts his glasses, then plants his elbows on the table, resting his chin in the cradle of his hands.
“You know a few things about the latter, right, Eva?”
My lips part, unprepared for the poke, but I recover quickly, scrunching up my face. “A podcast? Hmm. You host it, you said?”
“I do, yeah,” he replies, eyes glinting. He leans back in his seat like he’s settling in for some fun. Okay, asshole. Let’s play.
“And people actually listen to it?” I’m in dangerous territory here with my own piss-poor number of subscribers to my creative endeavors outside of this stupid show, but I’m committing to the kill.
“They do.” His smile grows, an air of challenge in his relaxed posture,
I sniff, raising my eyebrows and looking off. “Huh. I would never willingly listen to a man speak in my spare time, but that’s just me.”
Cooper guffaws, then laughs, but Aida gets in my line of sight off camera, William right behind her, both glaring at me.
A substantial portion of our viewers are men, and I’d guess a huge chunk of Cooper’s audience are women interested in what he has to say, so I’m undoubtedly not helping the engagement goal.
“Anyway.” I glance back at my notes as if I don’t have every word memorized… to use against him, of course. “It says here your social media presence has been described as a safe space for men too afraid to be on Pinterest. Was that always your goal?”
His lips quirk like I’m moderately amusing. I find myself having to look away from the catch of his stare, something scrambling in my stomach at the warmth I see there. “Well, actually, I don’t think anyone’s ever described my social media presence like that.”
“I just did,” I say, a heavy dullness in my voice, boredom in my eyes.
“Yes. Creating content that is somehow Pinterest adjacent for boys was always my life goal. If Maslow were alive, he’d write a case study on my self-actualization. Was yours to interrogate C-list social media personalities over hot dogs but treat it like the correspondents’ dinner?”
“I’ve had some B-listers on here,” I say, facade cracking as I jump to defense.
“Oh, I stand corrected. Barbara Walters is shaking with career envy from beyond the grave.”
Blood rushes in my ears with a fresh wave of rage that he’s so easily needling under my skin and he damn well knows it. This is my domain, my turf. I can’t let him get the upper hand and control this conversation.
He reaches for his hot dog, lifting it for his first bite. My arm snakes out, and I grip his wrist, halting him with his mouth hanging open, eyes equally round with horror. I ignore the singe of heat from where my skin touches his… probably the same cosmic reaction of holy water burning a demon.
“Are you sure you should eat that?” I ask, holding his pewter gaze.
His eyes flick between me and the hot dog, and he clears his throat, a genuine thread of worry in his voice as he asks, “Why? Did you poison it?”
“No. Higher-ups told me I wasn’t allowed.” I frown. “But I just wanted to double-check you can eat it.”
He lifts an eyebrow in question.
“You look like someone with a lot of food intolerances.”
He makes a choking sound as I drop my hand from his arm.
He recovers, then takes an aggressively large bite of the wiener with a look that says Ha!
This’ll show you! But after a few chews and an attempt at a swallow, he starts coughing, little bits of bun sprinkling his plate.
Avoiding the impulse to recoil at this meaty shower, I reach out and thump his back a few times, hard enough that his glasses skitter to the tip of his nose.
“Oh no, was the ketchup too spicy for you? I told them they should give you mayo.”