“Yeah… I think so.”
“You think so?”
“No… I am.” My cheeks flush. “It’s just—”
“No just.” He stands. Takes my hands. Pulls me up and into a hug. “That’s fucking amazing.”
“You think?”
“Fuck yes.”
My blush deepens. “It’s just—”
“You’re an amazing photographer.”
“I’m new at it.”
“And you rock everything you wear.”
“But I—”
“Have perfect tits?”
“I’m not what models look like.”
He pulls back enough to give me a long, slow once-over. “Maybe that’s fashion’s loss.”
“Yeah, but it’s still—”
“I know.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re gorgeous, Skye. And your body is fucking amazing. You don’t have to agree. But I’m not going to let you say anything less.”
My chest warms. “It’s more… what other people will say.”
“Where are they? Can I hurt them?”
“What will that solve?”
“It will feel good.” His eyes meet mine. “You never want to hurt people who hurt you?”
“Sometimes.” In the moment, sure. When I get a comment about how I’m too fat to wear a bikini. Or some dumb John Hughes kinda ching-chong racist bullshit. Or all those girls in high school who looked at me like I wasn’t good enough. And the guys who spread rumors… “A lot of times.”
“Go on.”
“It doesn’t accomplish anything.” I stare back at him. “When have you ever hit anyone?”
“Been a while. But I would. If someone hurt Ariel. Or you. Or Holden even.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’d fight for Holden?”
“Fuck, I’d die for Holden.”
“Really?”
“He’s my little brother.”
“He needs you looking out for him?” I ask.
“Isn’t he hitting on Oliver’s underage sister?” Forest asks.
“I, uh… I actually think he’s just helping her out.”
Forest’s eyes fill with doubt.
“I think he’s a good guy, deep down.”
“Very deep.”
“You’d die for him even though you think he’s a… what do you think he is?”
“An instigator. But he means well… Usually.”
“That’s sweet.”
His cheeks flush. “Anyone would—”
“They wouldn’t.”
“They… I’ve been helping them out a long time. After Mom… it was hard. Dad could barely get out of bed for a while.” His eyes meet mine. “But you’re not getting me started on that, princess.”
“No?” I want to hear it. He doesn’t talk about his mom’s death. Or the time after it. But he wears the scars from it. They’re everywhere.
“Not until we finish this.”
“Finish how.”
“You’re officially pursuing photography and modeling?”
“God, does that make me an influencer?”
“It makes you exactly an influencer.”
My nose scrunches in distaste.
“Is it such a bad thing? Influencing other women to find amazing clothes.”
“Well…” I bite my lip. “There is a real lack of fashionable plus-size clothes.”
“And…”
“There could certainly be more non-white influencers.” God, the word still makes me cringe. “It’s just… no one looks at me and thinks model.”
“I do.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s scary, putting yourself out there.”
“Yeah.”
“People might reject you. They’ll probably say rude shit about you. That’s what people are like.”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip.
“As much as I want to threaten to kill them, I’m not sure that will accomplish much.”
“Probably not,” I say.
“But I promise, when it’s within my power, I’ll do whatever I can to protect you. If you’ll let me.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re my best friend, Skye. Even if you weren’t the sexiest woman in the universe, I’d still want to protect you.”
My blush spreads to my chest.
“You’re really going to pursue this? Full time?”
“I think so.”
“That’s big.”
“It’s not—”
“We have to celebrate.”
“No, we don’t—”
“You don’t want to drive around Los Angeles, getting the best of everything matcha?”
“Well… when you put it that way.”
His smile is big, broad, pure love.
It makes my stomach flutter, my chest warm, my limbs buzz. Does he really have all that love for me?
It’s hard to believe.
But I want to believe it.
I really want to believe it.
After breakfast, we drive to my favorite ice cream place—the vegan one that uses cashews and coconut as their base. (It’s amazing, as good as “real” ice cream, not that I’ve had it recently).
I get half vanilla, half matcha.
Forest gets all chocolate.
God, the way he licks that cone—
It’s beautiful torture.
And the way he watches me eat my scoop—
That’s even better.
After we finish, we walk to the coffee shop next door, talk about nothing, take pictures for Instagram.
For the first time all day, I think about Mackenzie. Is that why he’s doing this? Is he still gunning for her? Am I some space filler?
I should ask.
But I’m too scared to hear the answer.
I post a sexy-cute ice cream picture. His arm around my waist. Our cones next to each other. Light colors with my black dress as a background.
Out of habit, I check comments, likes, messages.
There’s something.
Dear Princess Skye,
We love your latest sponsored posts. I know it’s late in the season and you may be booked, but we’re ready to offer you three thousand dollars to post our swimwear.
The details are up to you. We know you’ll do something creative and amazing. We need six images, spread over the next few months, ending with something on the Fourth of July.