Page 9 of Insta-Love

“Damn phone. Damn stupid auto-focus.”

“What’s going on?” Kath asks. She sounds more panicked than I am.

“Damn thing won’t pick up on him.” I tap the screen to reassign the focus and with my heart in my throat, certain I’m about to get busted, snap a picture as he walks up the side of his car. His head lifts, he turns it toward our house, and I hit the floor with an unceremonious whomp.

“That was too damn close,” I breathe. “Too close.”

“You got it though?”

“Priorities woman,” I chastise. “I almost got booked for being a peeping Tom and all you’re worried about is if you’ll get your daily man-candy.”

“So?”

“Fair enough. I would be too.” I chuckle and bring the phone over my head as I lie on the floor and send the image through Messenger. The ding of her phone echoes down the line. “Tell me I’m not so sex-starved that I’m seeing things. He is hot, right?”

“Hold on, I’m opening it up. Damn Wifi is slow here today.”

I get up off the floor and return to the biscuits as she does. The round cutter in my hand is poised above the dough when she groans.

“Oh. My. God. Ava.”

“What? Am I legally blind? Tell me,” I plead.

“Do you not know who that is?”

“Clearly,” I deadpan, punching the cutter through the dough.

“I’ll send you a link. Give me five.”

A link? I leave the call hanging and place the rounds onto a greased tray while she fluffs about on the other end.

“There,” Kath states. “Check that out.”

My phone chimes, and I stuff a wad of leftover dough into my mouth as I rinse my hands and check the new message. Her link takes me to Instagram and my eyes go wide as I take in what’s splashed across my phone screen. “Wow.”

“Right?”

If I’d wanted to know what he looks like in his underwear, apparently all I had to do was ask the rest of the world. “Are you sure?” I check how many followers the account has and frown—she must have it wrong.

“Babe, the tattoos match.”

So they do. “I mean…wow.”

“Yep. That, my gorgeous lady, is your new neighbour.”

Holy crap. Definitely not going to mend bridges and ask him out now. “Well, that puts him into the impossible basket.”

“Why?”

“Are you serious?” I cry out. “Look at the guy. Look at how many people he has hanging on his every photo.” I scroll down the page, my chest feeling a little tighter, and my heart beating a little faster as I do. Are my cheeks going red?

“Why should that put you off?”

I tap on one image and screenshot it, sending it through to Kath. “That’s why.”

She hesitates after the ding of her phone. “Because he has a sponsor?”

“Because of the other athletes in the picture.”

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