Page 23 of Dear Adam
Really, though, I was a goner the moment Aly had jumped out of that Bronco in nothing more than an itty-bitty orange bikini and a pair of unbuttoned denim shorts rolled at the waist.
And the way the water droplets ran from her long, wavy hair down her spine as she straddled her board when the sun was just beginning to rise in the background? That was an image I hoped I never forgot.
“My assistant, if you even want to call her that, called this morning to let me know some bad news. We just really need to drum up some business before too long or I’m not sure what might happen.”
Aly puts a finger to lips, considering me for a moment.
“Let me take some pictures of you today!” she squeals suddenly. “Maybe we can put the ladder back under the light fixture in the hallway, and you can pretend like you’re hanging it again! Your biceps looked huge when you were doing that earlier. I bet if we made you an Instagram account and posted it, people everywhere would be lining up outside your door to make an appointment with you.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.
“You think my biceps are big?” I say and give her a little nudge with one arm while I unabashedly flex the other.
She swallows hard, as if finally realizing what she said. “That’s not what I said.” Her cheeks are the color of ripe little strawberries, and she’s trying and failing to look anywhere but my flexed arm. “Ibasicallyjust said anyone who needs a light fixture installed or anything of that sort may give you a call.”
“Youbasicallysaid I was a hot contractor,” I tease.
My eyes are drawn to her lower lip as she sucks it in and chews nervously. As she fidgets, she quickly turns her attention to the harbor. “Fine, don’t pose for a picture,” she says. “I’m just saying what I think might work. It’s part of our deal anyway. You help me, I help you. I don’t tell you the best way to hang light fixtures, and you don’t tell me the best way to market your company.” She crosses her arms and looks at me again, face set in determination.
A chuckle escapes me. “Fine. A deal is a deal, and I’m a man of my word.”
I dust the crumbs from my fingers off on my pants then get up to go inside, Aly following me. Eagerly, she scoots past me and grabs the ladder, positioning it under the light fixture. After several adjustments, she motions for me to climb on.
“Move your left arm up just a little more…perfect! Flex it a little maybe? Yes!” she says, and snaps a picture. She looks at it for a second and frowns. “Okay, maybe take your right arm and move it forward just a little.” I try to do what she says and she shakes her head. “No, more forward.” I try again and she huffs. “Hold on,” she mutters and steps on the bottom step behind me.
Any other time, I would be thinking how incredibly unsafe this is, but right now, all I can think about is Aly’s closeness. When she grabs my elbow softly and positions it how she wants, I realize I’m holding my breath. A shiver runs down my spine when her body brushes against mine. Then, in an instant, she’s gone, back across the room and snapping more photos.
“Every new picture you take, my self-esteem drops a little more,” I say, pretending to be irritated. “Is it really necessary to take that many?”
She giggles and finally, after a few more pictures, puts her phone down. “I think one of these will do.”
Moving next to her, I watch over her shoulder as she opens up her Instagram app and pictures of flowers, Bloomie’s, and random shots of Charleston fill the screen. Each little square looks so bright and happy. I want to look through each of them and catch up on the past ten years of Aly’s life before she clicks away.
She quickly creates a new profile for me and asks, “Which filter? This one or this one?” She shows me the different options but I know nothing about filters, and they both look the same to me.
“I don’t know,” I groan. “I don’t even know what a filter is. Can’t we just post a picture of the light fixture and call it good?”
“Levi,” she says, her face set in a determination again. “If I were scrolling through Instagram and I saw a picture of the light fixture in my hallway, I would absolutely not like that photo. That’s so boring.”
“But, you’d like it if a hot contractor was in it?” I ask, grinning.
Her cheeks turn pink again and she looks away. “Fine. I’m picking this filter whether you like it or not.” She types a few more things and then exclaims, “Done!”
She hands the phone over to me, and I read the caption.
Need an extra hand with renovations? Call Middleton Construction!
She also posted my phone number below and only about a million little pound signs with words that don’t make sense to me. Immediately, her phone pings with a notification.
“Look,” she says, pointing to her screen. “You’ve already got your first like.”
She clicks on the name, and a brunette’s profile fills the screen, featuring pictures that leave little to the imagination. “Maybe I went a little overboard on the hashtags,” she mutters, and I wish I knew what she was talking about.
“Maybe we can post every other day. I think that should gain a lot of attraction to the page and I bet your phone will be ringing off the hook in no time. Do you want to know your handle and password so you can login and look around?”
“My handle?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
“Maybe not. We’ll take baby steps for now.”
She grins and walks into the living room, where Pretzel and Hank have been playing with Pretzel’s stuffed unicorn. “Umm…Levi?” she says. “Why is your sandwich on the floor? And covered in…”
