Page 114 of Breaking Away

He cocks his head, as if asking mewhat for?

“I know this is a lot,” I rush out.

This barbecue is because of our bet, because it was the encouragement I needed in that dressing room to take photos, and now I’m wondering if it’s pushed him too far. His apartment is louder than it’s ever been. The peace is gone, replaced by laughter and chaos. For an introvert who may be shy, it’s surely overwhelming.

“I can send everyone home,” I suggest quietly.

“No.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’m not hiding from them.” Golden eyes swoop over me. Once. Twice.

I—I feel hot. Like I need to take my top off, that kind of hot.

We don’t say another word for a long, stretched moment.

He finally speaks. “Will you ask about it? The social media position.”

It’s not a topic I expected him to bring up. My fingers hook around one another. “Do you think that’s fair? Getting the job permanently withmylack of experience?”

“Have you looked at what you already posted? Have you logged in and seen your pictures online?”

“No.” A laugh spills out of me. Self-deprecating, even to my ears.

His eyes darken, disapprovingly. Dmitri strides with purpose to stand in front of me. His hand snakes down, and dips into the front pocket of my jeans. Before I can tell my stalled heart to beat again, my phone is pulled out.

“Check,” he orders. “While I watch you.”

It’s hard not to shiver at his tone. One you would imagine, especially standing in the bedroom I promised myself I would never enter again, applied to other scenarios.

Undress, Princess. Take off your clothes while I watch you.

Liquid heat pulses between my legs. I avert my eyes, mumbling, “I’m…. it could… not be good.”

He cups my arm below the elbow, urging me to take the phone. My fingers curl around the device. “I will. Later.”

“Now.”

“Bossy.”

“And? Afraid, Basra? I thought you were choosing yourself, finally. Don’t you have to face yourself to choose yourself?”

His tone is mocking, lightly so. More encouraging if I listen carefully, which I won’t do. Getting riled up to assume this manis being rude is easier. I’m buzzing even as my spine straightens. “Screw you.”

“Check.”

I do, too vexed to be anxious, as if I need to latch onto the push he’s giving me to be brave. It takes a scary moment for this screen to refresh. All I hear is the pounding in my ears.

The numbers populate. The likes and the shares.

I wobble watching them go up, leaning back on my heels. “There it is,” I whisper. “My work. It’s online.” My thumb scrolls. “And there are comments,” I exclaim.

“Read them out to me.”

I do.

When he tells me what to do exactly like this, it does, I hate to admit, actuallyhelp.I stop overthinking and fidgeting… and ride the surety in his voice. Going through the comments, I see people are being strangely nice. How there are SO many more fire emoji reactions than I’d ever think there would be. That my photos are being reposted and shared on stories.

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