Page 24 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“I’d have so much more fun being interviewed by you.”
He stares at me, appearing at a loss for words.
I don’t know why I said that. That’s such a lie. My heart will be jumping out of my chest. I won’t know what to do with my hands. My feet will be bouncing all over the damned place, and I will give the stupidest answers as I stare adoringly at Noah wishing I could just touch him. It would be nerve-wracking until the end.
Tamika and I, on the contrary, would have such a great time. We’d crack each other up and enjoy every second, then probably go out for burgers and fries afterwards.
But I can’t help myself around Noah.
I can’t resist an opportunity to spend more time around him—now that I’ve got him back in my life.
And this time, there aren’t cafeterias and classrooms standing in between us. The only thing in our way is ourselves.
“I … I want you to be the one,” I say, forcing the words out. “I want you to be the one who interviews me … Noah.”
Here I go again, suffocating him with my attention.
Like some kind of lovesick parasite.
Do I even know how to practice restraint around him?
Then he says something. A single word.
And I miss it.
“What was that?” I ask, perking up. “D-Did you say—?”
“Yes,” he chokes. He shifts his feet, appearing uncomfortable. Then he lifts his chin and repeats the glorious word: “Yes.”
My heart skips. “Really? You’ll do it?”
“Yes. I just need to … to reorganize myself a bit.”
I watch him swallow down the panic and nervously adjust his glasses. He swiftly pulls out his phone and starts tapping it, skillful thumbs scattering across the screen with impressive speed.
Honestly, it’s kind of amazing, watching his fingers move like that. I can see him busy at the keyboard, hard at work.
I imagine those fingers on my shoulders suddenly.
Then on my chest, with his eyes on mine.
Then those same fingers sliding down my body.
Every tap of his thumbs on that phone, I feel his fingertips on my skin, like the fantasy is made more real with every soft sound he makes. I bite my lip with frustration, watching, listening, and feeling every tappity-tappin’ bit of it.
Seriously, can I fucking restrain myself for one second?
“Is tomorrow okay?” he asks suddenly, speaking without once looking up from his phone.
I blink. “Oh. We’d do it so soon?”
“Burton still wanted to run the story about you saving my life, so I can ask some questions about that, too, and maybe better flesh out the piece I wrote earlier this afternoon.”
“Wow, you already wrote a piece about today?”
“I’m kind of like a machine,” admits Noah. “To a … fault,” he quietly adds to himself, still thumbing through his phone.
I stare at him in a silent daze, wondering how else he might be like a machine.
