Page 3 of From Maybe to Baby

I'm debating whether that last hashtag is too aggressive when my notifications start rolling in:

OMG dream life.

How do I get your job??

That view.

And my personal favorite:

Must be nice not having any responsibilities.

Asshole.

If they only knew how I spend more time answering emails than taking sunset photos. Or that my "dream life" involves spreadsheets, analytics, and constant negotiation with brands who think exposure should pay my rent. But that's not what sells the fantasy.

"Beautiful shot."

I lower my phone to find Jamie, the Australian surf instructor I met at last night’s dinner, demonstrating exactly why the resort hired him. Sun-bleached hair, perfect tan, and abs that deserve their own Instagram account. He's been circling my orbit for twenty-four hours, playing the same game I am—flirting just enough to make good content without creating actual complications.

"The angle's all wrong," I lie, because flirting is more fun with a little challenge, and because I can already see the engagement numbers if I feature him in my stories. My followers love hot man chest even more than infinity pools and fancy drinks.

He moves closer, all coconut sunscreen and expert charm. "May I help?"

It's a line. I know it's a line. He probably uses it on every female guest who passes through. But it's my last day in paradise before my descent into the hell of what will be my next assignment, and he's exactly what my ‘personal brand’ needs.

"I suppose I could use a male model in the shot." I tilt my head, channeling my best unimpressed-influencer vibe. "For scale."

His laugh is as practiced as my indifference. Perfect. Nothing ruins a good flirtation like authenticity.

Two hours later, I've got three hundred new followers, a slightly sunburned nose, and the satisfaction of a connection that I will never see again, except in pictures. Surfer dude was fun, photogenic, and exactly what I promise my followers—adventure without attachment, romance without responsibility, and absolutely no chance of having to learn anyone's coffee order.

"You should come back for the advanced surfing season," he says as I pack up my various electronic crap—three cameras,two phones, and a laptop that costs more than some people's monthly rent.

"Can't. Headed to hell tomorrow." The words taste bitter, like the resort's twenty-two-dollar green juice that made me gag.

"Seriously? You?TheAlexa Minty, of Minty Fresh Adventures?”

“Can you believe it?” I try not to choke on my words. “I’m off to cover a family-friendly vacation destination.”

My first time uttering the words. They are as horrifying spoken out loud as they are swirling around my brain.

Shock washes over surfer dude’s face, and I realize I’ve met a kindred spirit. But it quickly morphs into a giant grin, and I hate him.

“You, at a family resort?" He laughs like I would joke about such a thing. "What happened to 'adventure without ankle-biters'?" He snorts and he’s suddenly very unattractive.

At least he’s been reading my blog.

"Believe me, I'm processing the trauma." I slide my sunglasses on, both as a shield and because I know they photograph well. "But don't worry—I'm sure I'll find plenty to be snarky about. My followers love a good rant."

Trying to be optimistic.

"Don't let the kid crowd corrupt you." He winks. "Your 'no baby pics' policy is half your charm."

And there we have it.

He's right, and that's exactly what terrifies me. Five years of carefully curated child-free content, of building a following that comes to me specifically for adult adventures and zero stroller recommendations. Five years of positioning myself as the child free influencer, and now...

My phone pings. This time it's from a luxury resort in Fiji, offering a comped stay in exchange for coverage. The kind of opportunity I usually jump into with two feet, the kind thatanyone would snatch up. The kind that might not come around much longer if I start posting about juice boxes and stroller-friendly hiking trails.

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