Page 9 of The Close-Up
When he clears his throat, I’m back to the present.
“Look, I know you called about an interview, but—”
I interrupt him before he can say more. I know the tone, the implication of “look” said in this way. It’s been thrown at me a million times before whenever I’ve asked for an interview from someone who is hell-bent on saying no. But if I can interview him and introduce him to the masses, he could reach even more people.
I swallow back all my residual embarrassment and put on my fearless interviewer hat. “You still get people calling you the pussy whisperer, don’t you?”
For a long second all I hear is silence. My heart thuds, wondering if he’ll hang up on me. But then he clears his throat. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Doing an interview with me could change that for you. Right now, so many people think of you as the cam-guy-turned-relationship-guru. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You should be proud of your cam work. You were incredible.”
I bite my tongue. I sound like a pervy fangirl. Must stay on message.
“But people should know you as a therapist first. This interview could help solidify that. We have an impressive reach.”
I run through a few stats about the average daily views on our site and how often we’re mentioned in other media outlets. The way he hums makes me think he’s almost convinced.
“When I got your messages, I watched some of your interviews,” he says. “I love how you work. You let the subject say their piece and ask open-ended questions. You never try to trip people up, like some interviewers.”
“I would never. I promise to let you tell your own story the way you want to, in a way that’s comfortable for you.”
“I don’t know you very well, Naomi, but I trust you a hundred percent on that.”
I hold my breath, hopeful that this might actually work out.
“Okay,” he finally says.
I swallow back the victory squeal I want to let out. Instead I fist-pump the air.
“Free tomorrow?” he asks. “You can drop by my home office in the morning and we can get rolling on this.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Three
By some coincidence, Simon’s apartment is right next to Nob Hill, just a handful of minutes away from Harper’s place.
Standing outside his building, I slowly inhale to calm my crackling nerves. I’ll have to look at him for the next couple of hours. I’ll have to gaze into his eyes, inhale the scent of his cologne, and pretend that I didn’t used to fantasize about him. I haven’t the slightest clue how I’ll be anything other than flustered to the max. I hit the buzzer to his building intercom anyway.
“Hey there.” Simon’s voice sounds tin-like through the speaker.
“Hey, Simon. It’s Naomi.”
“Naomi.” He practically chants my name. It makes the ball of nerves at the center of my chest loosen a tad.
“Sorry, I’m here a little earlier than we said.”
“Don’t fret about it.”
That phrase again. It unleashes another naughty memory of Simon lying on a bed, his partner riding his face. One more blink and I get a killer view of his backside as he slowly, smoothly takes her from behind.
“Come right up,” he says.
I reach for the door to his building, my face hot from the images tainting my brain. No more blinking allowed. Just a deep, centering breath.
When Simon lets me into his place, he’s the picture of ease, with an effortless half-smile on his face. As he helps me with my bags, we exchange pleasantries. Now that he’s standing up straight and not slouched on a stool, I notice he’s tall as well as broad. Maybe a couple inches past six feet. Just standing next to him makes my five-foot-seven-inch self feel dainty.
He gestures to two armchairs near the bay window in his living room. “I figured this would be the best place to shoot, because of the lighting and the space.”
