Page 20 of Insta-Love

He steps sideways to lean a shoulder into the wall. “What’s your story?”

I cringe under his inquisitive stare and snap back, “What’s yours?”

A smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “I asked first.”

Oh my God—he’s so infuriating. I should be glad he’s back to being cocky; it’s a darn sight less confusing, but sheesh, give a girl a break.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I answer. “Especially to somebody I don’t know all that well.”

“So get to know me,” he challenges. “We’ve probably got an hour or two to kill yet.”

I glance across at his hard stare, the way his jaw is set firm. It’s as though he thinks I don’t care, as though he’s so certain I wouldn’t want to hear about his history that he dares me to ask.

“Maybe another time,” I answer softly.

He remains by the wall, brooding gaze burning the flesh on the right side of my face as we wait for the doctor to return. The minutes pass, the tension grows, and I contemplate bolting from the room so I can breathe properly.

So break the ice. I file through the boring pedestrian questions like “Where did you grow up?” and “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” and go straight for the one I’m most curious about instead.

“What made you start doing the Instagram thing?”

His eyes widen a fraction before he schools his expression. “You know about that, huh?”

“I was told of it, yeah.”

“When?”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“No, I’m not,” he states, crossing over to sit beside me. He twists his body and props a knee up on the seat so he can face me. “Because I want you to tell me how long you’ve known about what I do.”

“Why?” What does it matter? “What difference does it make to the fact I know?”

“Because,” he says, licking his bottom lip as his brow furrows. “I want to know why you’ve never treated me as though you want anything from me.”

“Pardon?”

His gaze bounces between my eyes. “You’ve seen how many followers I have, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

“And yet as hard up as you are, you don’t look at that, at me, and see dollar signs?”

Is he for real? “No. I don’t.”

He leans back, chin high as he eyes me critically. “Huh.”

Huh, is fucking right. What kind of emotional baggage does this man carry?

How desperate does he think I am?

---