Page 11 of Shes my 1 Try

Poking my tongue out at her like a five-year-old, I do what she says and fumble with her phone, almost dropping it on the floor when I find it. There, on the set of the photoshoot is me, the angle she’s taken her picture from showing, well, everything, and there, at the bottom, is the caption #cuteboy.

“Seems like you made an impression on her too,” Mandy remarks, but I can’t look away from her phone. “Plus, she’s got a sense of humour, it seems. She’ll need that if she’s gotta deal with you every day.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You’re such a dork sometimes, Ash. This is an obvious play on your words…and, I do not see any other photos from that day. Only you. It’s obvious she was taken with you as much as you were with her.” I understand what she’s saying, but it mustn’t show on my face as she pushes an exaggerated sigh out.

“It doesn’t change anything. I still don’t know her name, and this,” I wave Mandy’s phone in her face, “is her business account.”

“Give me fucking strength,” she answers in exasperation, swiping her phone back. “I thought you had game, Ash. Evidently, you’re a they’ll-come-crawling-to-me kinda guy, which is ick, by the way.”

“Hey! I resent that! I am not that guy. Never have been. I just…” The way she looks at me, like I’m some wounded animal, makes me feel like the biggest idiot in the world. I should have been able to work this out. Right?

“I know you’re not that guy. I’m teasing. You make it too easy sometimes, Ash. Look, it’s simple,” she leans on the counter and I stand next to her, hovering, watching as she scrolls through Miss Feminine Wiles’, posts. “If we look at who likes her posts the most and then…click on their profile…scroll through their followers…and…voilà! Here’s your mystery woman.”

Wiley Nolan.

Wiley Nolan.

Wiley Nolan.

Repeating the name over and over in my head to make sure it sticks; I mean, how could it not? I want to get her name tattooed across my heart, for fuck’s sake. I want…I want her. I want an us and I feel like a loon with the smile that takes over my face. Waltzing around my kitchen, scrolling through her posts. If this love at first sight thing is real, I’m falling head over heels.

“There isn’t a fella in sight,” Mandy comments offhand and I lift my head up to see her with my phone in hand.

“Do you think that means she’s single?” I ask hopefully, clicking on a picture of Wiley in a sexy as fuck dress that hugs her body, highlighting her fine, fine ass, and curves that go for days.

“Either that or she’s gay?” Mandy shrugs and that thought hits like a tonne of bricks. “Hold still, I need a picture of this.”

“You’re a cruel bitch sometimes, Mandy,” I growl, twisting away from her.

“Hey, Ash, I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve never seen you like this before. You’ve never lost yourself to a woman. I kinda like it, knowing that you’re human, like the rest of us mere mortals.” She slides up next to me, bumping me with her hip. “So, you gonna follow her or not?”

Shifting my attention from the phone clutched in my hands and then back to Mandy, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but when it does, sweat breaks out down my back. My heart starts to hammer out Led Zeppelin’s—Immigrant Song, and I flap my gums like a lunatic.

“Oh…um, no. I can’t.” I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the phone. “She might think I’m a damn stalker.”

“You are a stalker, cuz, but the good kind,” she laughs the last part, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “Look, she’s got a fair number of followers. She’s probably not even gonna notice.”

“Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” I stretch out the last bit, rolling my eyes. “No, I?—”

“Too late,” she pronounces with a grin, and I flick my attention to the phone in her hand and realise it’s mine.

“What the fuck did you do?” I reach for it, our game of cat and mouse resuming.

“I did you a favour,” she calls over her shoulder as she darts out of the kitchen, headed for the bathroom. “And I’m about to do you another one.”

The door slams in my face before I get there, the lock snicking into place and I’d be lying if I wasn’t tempted to kick it in. “Mandy! Give me my phone back now!”

“Or what? You’ll tell my mummy,” she mocks, as I bash on the door.

“I wouldn’t tell your mum anything. She’d kick my ass worse than you,” I admit, Mandy’s hum of agreement reaching me through the door. “C’mon on, Mandy. Don’t do this.”

After a minute or two of me thumping on the door and pleading, it opens and Mandy hands me my phone. “You’re welcome.”

Holding the phone up to open it, I thumb through to Instagram and now I want the earth to open up and swallow me. I’m so screwed.

FIVE

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