Page 29 of Mountain Wood

Nick still doesn’t move.

“Bro, you good?”

“Huh?”

“You good?”

Nick hops down and seems to come out of his stupor. “That was hot. You’re not my type… but that was hot. You’re going to make bank with that one. Nice work.”

Loading the video with the caption,“Slippery when wet”, I glare at the number of notifications I have.

Two hundred and seventeen new notifications. And they’re all from the same account. Good lord, I have a stalker. Someone’s liked every single post I’ve made and…

They commented on my one from this morning.

Is the sun the only thing rising this morning? #woodfordays

The account just has a Red Sox logo on it with no posts. Hmmm. My thumb hovers over the block button, but something makes me hesitate. Grace saw my account. She brought up my handle the other day, and that can’t have been a coincidence. Is she this Red Sox person?

Not likely. She doesn’t seem like a baseball fan. Then again, I know zilch about this woman’s interests.

Other than she seems to enjoy beard rides.

Regardless, I imagine Grace would have a pretty stocked account if she was on this app. I’ve seen her make videos and take pictures already. Is she a content creator too? An influencer of some kind?

TypingGrace Finchin the search bar pulls her right up and yeah, just like I thought, she’s got a ton of posts. Jesus, she also has a gazillion followers.

Hang on.

My heart pounds in my chest as I start scrolling through her stuff. She’s been all over the world. Like… everywhere. Japan, Dubai, England, Greece. The list goes on and on. Everything is set to trendy music. And each one has my girl smiling and laughing.

Not my girl.

My guest.

A link at the top brings me to her other platforms and the views just get better and better. She has an even bigger following on the Gram. Holy hell. A bunch of these posts are paid partnerships, according to the tags. I wonder how much she gets paid to…

Hold up.

Is that… Grace in a Red Sox jersey? And who the hell is the dude with his arm around her? Jealousy coils in my gut because I can’t hold a candle to this man. He screams big money and muscle.

When big bro loses a bet, he has to pay the bill. Thanks for having us, Fratellis. Your lasagna is divine!

Okay, that’s her brother. Phew. But also, damn. I knew Grace was a princess, but I honestly didn’tknow how very true that was until now. She’s got photos of herself at beaches that don’t look real, on red carpets with celebrities, and rooftops dining with food on her plate I’ve never seen in my life.

And she wants a break from all that?

No way. She’s lying.

Before I can deep dive into a Grace Finch rabbit hole, Nick slaps my arm. “Come on, this pipe, just like you, can’t lay itself.”

Ain’t that the fucking truth.

While we install the tub, my thoughts stray to Grace a bazillion times. It makes the entire morning and most of the afternoon torture. I’m not certain who jumps up first when the sun glares off her car as she pulls up to the cabin, but Oscar beats me to the window and we both watch her.

Why does my chest feel so warm when I look at her?

And why is she carrying a bag of food and drink caddy over to where we are?

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