Page 53 of Worst in Show

After they’re gone, I clean up, trying to ignore my phone, which is face down on the table. I’m not going to do it.

I’m not.

I’m really not.

I’m… Oh, who am I kidding?

When I flip the phone over, there’s a notification for a message from Al, but tonight I have other things on my mind, so I swipe it away. Then I curl up in bed, take a deep breath, open Instagram again, and start scrolling.

Canine King’s account is pretty but too promotional for what I’m after. I find Leo’s personal one after a brief search, and right off the bat, it shows promise. His profile pic is a semi-casual portrait against a city backdrop. A small smile lingers as if the photographer said something funny, but the suit is all business, and Micki wasn’t wrong. It hugs his broad shoulders in that way only tailored garments do. I nod slowly to myself as a small flame flickers on in my belly.

The posts from this year are mostly of Tilly as a tiny puppy, Diane’s place, and selfies against sunlit cornstalks and barn walls. But going back to the beginning of the year, there’s a shift. Something must have happened because earlier posts are of bars and restaurants, groups of business-clad people, and cityscapes. There’s a close-up of a familiar Patek wristwatch at 1:50 a.m. with the caption Midnight oil, and another from Christmas two years ago of him on the phone in a red tie and Santa hat captioned Business and pleasure.

He used to do CrossFit (because of course he did), and I slow down my scrolling through those images to admire popping muscles I didn’t know existed. The flame grows inside me, sending trickles of heat between my legs. “Well done, Leo,” I whisper.

I go farther and farther back, his chiseled features flashing past in the feed, until I stop at a candid shot of him exiting a pool in some tropical location. The water drips off his tan skin, and the shorts cling to him in a way that makes me dig my teeth into my lower lip.

Without thinking, I slip my fingers underneath the elastic of my sweats and let them trail the hem of my panties. I sigh and scoot lower.

Leo’s face is slightly turned away, one hand smoothing wet hair off his forehead. My gaze roams the curves of his biceps, the smattering of fair hair across his chest, a six-pack highlighted by adoring sunlight.

I go lower between my legs and find the fabric damp already. Pressure is building.

His hands would probably know exactly what to do. They’re broad and strong, well-groomed, gentle. And he knows what he wants.

My eyelids flutter closed on a low moan, but as I relax into the fantasy, my phone slips, and I fumble it against my chest.

“Ah, no. Damn it.” I get hold of it again, turn it over, and what I see is the most effective cold shower. A big red heart.

I’ve accidentally liked his photo.

I unliked it right away,” I tell Micki the next morning over the phone. “Will he still know?”

She’s laughing so hard she can barely talk. “Yes,” she wheezes. “Oh, this is too perfect.”

“I told you I shouldn’t be on social media.” My cheeks are burning. How will I ever be able to look at him again?

“There are a few pool pics here,” she says, still giggling. “Which one is it?”

“No, don’t look at them!”

“But I want to know what did it for you. It’s the one where he’s stepping out, isn’t it? Yeah, that’s hot.”

I lean my head into my free hand. “So hot, right? God, I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be. He’s not going to say anything.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he likes you. He wouldn’t embarrass you like that.”

“He tolerates me at best. Out of guilt.”

“You keep telling yourself that. But um…” She pauses. “Shit. Hey, you didn’t happen to look at the caption before your little ménage à moi, did you?”

“No. Why?”

“It says Quality time with my baby.”

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