Page 20 of Green
“When? You’re never here. I need that big bowl from the top shelf.”
“I’ll go to a yoga class with you when I’m here. Do you wear actual yoga pants?”
“No, I wear virtual yoga pants—what is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just suddenly thinking about my next line of fitness clothing.”
“I thought you were going to focus on the treadmill thing next.”
“I was, but this way we could work together. You could be my model and my muse.” He was all smirky and flirty and still eating the tortilla chips.
“Just get the bowl down hurry up.”
“Who do you go to yoga class with?”
“Nobody, I just go. Why are you taking forever to do this one simple thing?”
“Wow, you’re so much more patient and tolerant now—Namaste!”
“OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!”
“Here.” He rested one hand on my shoulder and leaned against me, reached up over my head, for the big bowl on the top shelf, then calmly placed it on the counter in front of me. I had to hold my breath, because he smelled so damn good I wanted to plant my face in his chest and just live there for a few hours. “Why are you so nervous—who did you invite?”
“I’m not nervous. Three friends.” I took a deep breath and shook off the tension. “Work friends. Who did you invite?”
“A few interesting acquaintances. Colleagues.”
“Groupies?”
“I would if I had any.”
“Guffaw.” I bent over to grab the second big bag of tortilla chips from under the counter, and noted that Theo did not glance over to check out my cleavage.
“I don’t—who’ve you been talking to?”
“Your Instagram page.”
“I don’t actually know most of those people who comment on my pictures.”
“What about the ones who send you private messages?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“I only respond to business-related messages. I’m not one of those male models you follow.”
He actually had more followers than many of the male models that I followed, and just as many women commenting on the occasional selfie that he posted. Not that I Insta-stalked him. And we never commented on each other’s Instagram posts, but we did comment on our private personal Facebook pages now and then, in case we would ever have to use our social media accounts as evidence in a marriage fraud investigation. But there was little chance of that happening. On paper, we were clearly a real marriage.
In a few days he would become a naturalized American citizen and our marriage could end, and so would this unique form of torture.
But first, I needed to change out of that camisole, because if Theo kept looking at me like that all night I would either run away screaming or hump his leg. Or both.
