Page 8 of His Secret

“Why? It’s just me.”

Just him. Yeah, just him and his ridiculous body. Him and those full and tempting lips. Him and that smile that makes you want to join in even if you have no idea why. Him and those eyes that draw you in and keep your attention.

“I feel comfortable around you,” he says. “I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

Yeah, well, he’s not harboring a stupid crush, so that’s easy to say. Have you ever been around someone you’re absolutely smitten with? You are never comfortable. You’re concerned about your posture, your body, and what’s potentially in your teeth. Is your hair doing that weird thing? Do you have something in your nose? What does your ass look like in your jeans? Are they looking at you the way you want them to?

“I mean, I’m fine,” I say, making my way to the chair at his desk.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks.

My lungs seize. “Yes.”

CHAPTER THREE

MATÍAS

He scoots up,one leg dangling off the side of the bed. I find myself leaning toward him, wondering what the hell kind of secret he’s about to reveal—to me of all people.

“I don’t want to work for my dad.”

I lean back. Was it ignorant to believe, even for the tiniest of seconds, that he was going to reveal he was secretly gay and also maybe had a crush on me? Perhaps. It could happen though. It does in books and movies.

“Oh?” I question, trying not to sound disappointed.

He nods. “I’m not saying that pro football is what I want to do either.”

“What do you want to do?”

He picks at a string on his hunter green comforter. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about a few things, but I guess they’re mostly hobbies.”

“Tell me.”

“I like writing.” He peers up at me like he’s waiting for me to make fun of him.

“Really? Like stories? Poetry?”

“Stories, though I did start with poetry. I’m not too good at it. You’d think rhyming would be easy.”

I chuckle. “What else?”

He beams. I can almost see light radiating off of him. “Come here.”

Reaching into the drawer next to him, he pulls out a photo album. I’m standing in front of the bed, but he taps the spot next to him so I reluctantly climb on top of the covers.

“I do a little photography.”

Inside the album are dozens of photos ranging from black-and-white candids to vivid landscape scenery.

I grab hold of the photo album and keep turning the pages. “Oh, my god. These are incredible.”

“They’re just pictures.”

“No. These are really good, Adrian.”

We look at each other, and he grins, a tinge of pink staining his cheeks. “Thanks.” With a sigh, he continues, “But they’re both hobbies. Dad says I can’t make a living with writing or photography.”

“No offense, but your dad is wrong.”

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