29. Instagram Boyfriend

Gavin

Are you kidding me?

It's seven-thirty. She got banged six ways to Sunday last night. And she's outside doing yoga this early?

What does a guy have to do to be alone?

I clench my jaw, hissing out a breath as I dip my spoon into the carton of yogurt, then take a bite at the kitchen counter.

I'd thought everyone was asleep when I returned from my morning run a few minutes ago. The house was still so I padded in quietly, sneakers off, and headed straight for the fridge to grab my yogurt.

Now that I've got a view of the deck, I can see Briar outside, set up at the far end of it on her yoga mat with her faithful dog at the top. Briar's back is to me as she lifts her arms to the sun, her long, lush golden waves cascading down her spine. She folds her body forward, then glides like water into a plank, then an upward dog.

Fuck me.

She looks too good like that. Too sexy. With her black yoga pants and some strappy little sports bra, and her pup watching her.

Donut has the right idea.

But this is the last thing I need—to see her looking this sexy after hearing her come last night. I cannot give in. I cannot get involved. My teammates are already playing with fire. I can't add kerosene to the flames.

Should have picked the tiny house to stay in instead of the damn loft. When I slept in the tiny home last night, the damage had already been done. I finally returned to the property well after midnight. Took a long walk around town with a podcast in my ears, trying to wash away the sound of her climax.

Maybe I'll take my breakfast and eat it on the front porch. I spoon some more yogurt and granola into my mouth. Yup. I'll do that in one more second.

After I watch this next pose.

But she stops midway through her downward dog, sinks to her knees, then knee-walks over to…a tripod.

Oh. She's shooting a video.

Damn, she's a worker bee. But she always has fresh content on her channel, so it makes sense she'd be shooting all the time. Her tripod is set up on a low stool on the deck, but it's tilted at an odd angle.

I scoop another spoonful of yogurt.

When she reaches for the tripod, it topples to the deck before she even touches it or her phone.

I stop the spoon midway to my mouth to peer out the window. It looks like the leg is loose on the tripod? Briar's trying to put it back in position, setting it down gingerly again on the stool when the leg goes kersplat.

As she grabs it, her gaze catches me staring at her through the window. And I'm busted. Her brow knits, then her lips quirk up in an unasked question. Have you been watching me?

Can't stay here like a helpless jackass now. Besides, it's not like my secret's written across my forehead—I jacked off hard to you last night.

No. Ferociously is more like it.

When I returned late last night, crashing in the tiny house alone with my lust and the soundtrack of Briar's orgasm, I took matters into my own hand.

Twice.

She won't be able to tell though. My poker face is stellar.

With my yogurt in hand, I head outside. Donut pops up, tilting her snout, then barking like she doesn't know me. But when she charges over to me, she licks my leg in a hello instead.

"Hey, girl," I say to the dog.

"I guess she likes you," Briar says.

"Dogs do more than people."

"I don't know if I believe that."

"Believe it," I say.

"Well, I think it's a good sign she likes you. She didn't like Steven. That should have been a sign to me."

"Steven's a dick." I should know. I looked him up last week. Even his bio screams asshole. He bragged about liking Macallan. Who the fuck does that? "Bet he's a name-dropper. Bet he's the type of guy who makes plans with his girlfriend but not the kind of plans you want. Bet he doesn't take care of you when you're sick since he's afraid he'll catch it. Bet he says he believes in you but doesn't really know what you do for a living. Also I bet he grunts while doing arm curls at the gym."

She blinks, her lips parted in surprise. "How did you know about the grunting?"

"Took a guess."

"Impressive," she says, shifting to sit on her knees. "But actually, I don't know about that. I didn't go to the gym with him."

"Trust me—he's the type of guy who grunts while doing arm curls." Then I stage-whisper, "There's no need to unless you're lifting cars." But enough about him. I nod toward her camera setup. "Is your tripod broken?"

"The leg is loose," she says. "But I can fix it. If there's a Phillips-head screwdriver here in the house or garage."

"I can look for a toolbox for you," I say, since I get the impression she's not the kind of woman who wants a guy to mansplain how to fix it or to man-fix it.

"The leg is too wobbly though," she says, after examining it. "I'm pretty sure the screw is stripped." She sighs heavily and I set down the yogurt on the table and walk over to her. "Steven jammed it in a garbage bag when he so helpfully packed up my stuff."

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. When I meet her gaze, I don't think of the sounds she made last night. I think of how tough she is, how resilient, how determined. "You deserve so much better than that guy," I say.

"I know," she says with some resignation.

I give her a curious look since I figured she'd say you think so or he was a jerk. Glad she knows though. Still, I add, "A good boyfriend should show you he deserves you every goddamn day."

"Ooh, intel for my column. I'll write that down."

"You do that. And don't forget it," I say, and before I'm tempted to sit with her and ask a million questions about who she is—a million tempting questions—I tip my chin toward the wounded tripod. "Want me to hold it for you while you shoot?"

"I can just grab a couple yoga blocks and stack it on that. I don't want to bother you." She says the last line like she feels guilty.

But why? Because she doesn't want help from me? Or because I didn't volunteer for her boyfriend project? It's not that I didn't want to. It's that I wanted to too much.

"I'd like to help you with this," I say, since it's the least I can do.

She shoots me a doubtful look. It's a little challenging—the look of someone who doesn't suffer fools. "Are you sure? You seem…irritated."

How do I seem irritated? But I don't want to ask that question. Because I don't want to get into why I had to take off late last night. Because I'm so fucking attracted to her, and every little thing I learn makes me like her more.

Like the fact that she wanted to cook with me. Like the fact that she's so goddamn determined to make it on her own. Like the way she takes care of her little dog like the dog's her bestie.

"I had a dog growing up," I say impulsively, the words rolling out before I can even get control of them. "A shepherd mix. Rascal was a good boy. My best friend."

"Is this going to be a sad story? Did someone take him away from you?"

"No," I reassure her. "He was like…Donut. Not a Dachshund, but my shadow."

She smiles warmly, instantly. "Donut's a shadow dog for sure."

I scratch my jaw. I don't love sharing my stories. But I say the next thing anyway. "He was my uncle's dog, but my uncle ignored the dog too. I trained him, Rascal. Taught him to shake, sit, stay, come. The dog felt like the only one I could rely on sometimes, you know?"

She meets my gaze with understanding in her eyes. "I do. I feel that way sometimes too about Donut. She's been mine for a few years now, and she makes her loyalties clear. Which I love." She takes a moment, then adds, "So I get it."

"Yeah?" I ask, a little hopeful.

"Yes. I do." There's a pause, then a tilt of her head. "You taught yourself to cook because no one else would do it, right?"

"You're exactly right."

"I had a feeling. I had to…figure out a lot on my own too. My mom left when I was young. I'm only saying that so you know I can kind of understand."

Ah, shit. That sucks. "I'm sorry." And I don't want to hog the parental trauma cards, but there's something about Briar—the way she talks, how she shares—that almost makes me want to open up. She may be a teacher, but her style of teaching is actually to share, to listen, to connect. My chest tightens uncomfortably, but still I say, "I was raised by my aunt and uncle." It's uncomfortable to say, but it feels necessary. It's also as far as I want to go right now. "Anyway, so that's that."

"That helps," she says, meeting my gaze with a smile, the sentence unfinished but I'm pretty sure she means that helps me understand you.

It's a good feeling—to be understood. But a dangerous one too. The kind that leads to closeness and that leads nowhere good. I gesture to the broken tripod again. "I don't mind holding your phone. It's what a good boyfriend would do."

Her smile says I'm recused. "I appreciate it, but I get that it's not your thing. The contest."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. How do I even explain why I want to do it?

Since I do.

Truly, I do.

I hate when people treat women badly, like my uncle did to my aunt. Then my aunt treated me badly because shit rolls downhill. "Your ex tossed all your things out in garbage bags because he cheated on you. He tried to keep your cat. He stole your ideas. I'm offering to be your tripod. Just let me, Briar."

She taps her chin playfully, as if considering it, then says, "Well, I suppose it is what an Instagram boyfriend would do."

I laugh and that feels good too. She hands me the phone and tells me what to shoot as she finishes a vinyasa.

Ten minutes later, we're done, and she pops up after a long, deep exhale that had me feeling connected to the earth and at peace in my body.

"How does it look?" She gestures to the phone.

I pretend to give it some serious thought, like an auteur would. "It could be better with a long establishing shot. Or maybe a crane shot if you'd like," I deadpan.

She bumps her shoulder to mine.

That should not send tingles across my skin.

It should not.

But it does.

"Are you Christopher Nolan or something? Greta Gerwig?" she teases.

"For my next career I'll be a director," I say, then pause to shift gears. "I mean it, Briar. Let me know what else I can help with." Running from her won't do me any good. Hiding is for weaker men. "I would like to."

"Thank you," she says with a smile, but then her expression turns serious as she says my name. "Gavin. I'm sorry about last night."

My brow furrows. "What about it?"

"I don't want to have this hanging between us. I don't want things to be awkward. So I'm just going to say it," she says with a resolute nod. "I'm sorry if we kept you up."

My face flames. She knows I ran off. She knows I heard her coming. She knows that's why I left.

C'mon, poker face, do your thing. "It's fine," I grunt, trying to be tough and unaffected.

"Good. Because I'm grateful you're letting me stay here, and I don't want to be a rude roommate."

"You're not." You're sexy, and funny, and direct, and you don't suffer fools.

"Thanks," she says, then heads to the door with her dog, tossing me a look before she goes in—a long, lingering one that's like a match to the kindling in me. The flames lick my skin, then burn hotter as she says, "You can direct me anytime."

Then she goes inside, leaving me with those parting words.

Does she mean in the bedroom? It's all I can think about as I shower off the run. It's all I can think about as I engage in round three of my hand's tribute to Briar.

This is going to be a fucking problem.

Especially since thirty minutes later as I finish getting dressed, there's a text from her blinking up at me on my phone.

With a very naughty emoticon.