Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Yes, quarterbacks are known for being bruisers,” I say.
Asher’s eyebrows rise. “We have a sarcastic one.”
Jason chuckles. “Ash, you gotta watch out for Beck. He’s quiet at first, then he unleashes a snark bomb. And boom.” Jason mimes an explosion.
Asher takes over, capturing the moment. “Perfect. Yes. Just like that,” he says, and a minute later, he’s beaming as he regards the back of the camera. “These are fantastic.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, a loudly audible one.
Asher strides over, looks me in the eye, and says, “You did great.”
I guess it’s obvious I suck at being photographed. “Thanks. But I think it was all you,” I say. This guy knew how to get the best of me.
“Nah. Check these out.” He gathers us near him, Jason on one side, me on the other. Asher shoves his long, floppy hair from his eyes, then flips through the images on the screen. I admit, several near the end are pretty damn good.
We look serious and intense. That’s what Wilder will want from me. What my team will expect. What the fans love.
Asher flicks to the smiling shots next. “Can I post these on my Insta? If your teams approve, of course. I won’t send them on to the show, but they’re fun candids.”
Jason studies them carefully, his brow knitting. As he looks through them, I try to read what’s going through his head. I’d have expected him to say yes right away. That suits his easygoing and happy-to-please personality.
But he’s quiet, so I study the pics more. They feel too personal. The reason I’m smiling in them is that Jason made me laugh. Asher too. “I’d rather you didn’t,” I say. “Maybe something from the last set instead?”
Asher nods quickly, smiles quickly too. “Of course. That’s why I ask. Don’t want to put anything out there you don’t want.”
The smiling one feels like a secret I don’t want to share. “Thanks,” I say.
While Asher puts his camera away, Jason claps his shoulder. “Thanks for fitting us in. Always a treat to work with you.”
“Please. It was my pleasure. Mark even came to town with me. He had some time off, but I caught him working this morning at the hotel. On a spreadsheet, of all things,” Asher says.
Jason shudders. “I hate spreadsheets.”
“Once upon a time, I did too,” Asher says, and there’s a private smile in his words.
Jason catches on to it. “I trust everything’s good with you and your dude?”
“The best,” Asher says, shouldering his camera bag. The photographer turns to me. “By the way, nice interview last night.”
That’s all he says about it, but I feel like I’m in the out-athletes club now. And weirdly, I don’t mind. I sort of even like it. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that,” I say seriously.
Then Asher hops into a fire engine red Porsche with the top down and takes off, aviator shades on, hair blowing in the breeze.
Jason points to the car peeling away. “That guy. I swear he does everything in style.”
“That’s a hot ride,” I say, shaking my head in admiration at the wheels.
“Aww, Caff. Is that your way of saying you want me to take you to the Porsche dealer now so you can get a car at last?”
I roll my eyes. “No, dickhead.”
“Same to you, jackass,” he says as we walk to his Tesla.
But the thing is—if I asked him to help me shop for a car, I bet he would. That’s just the kind of nice guy he is.
As we near my home, I’m antsy. Ideas whip through my mind. Risky ones.
I check the time on the dashboard. It’s a little past noon. My stomach rumbles. I could do it. Open my mouth and blurt out: want to get a bite to eat?
I tap my toe on the floorboard. I could tell him I spotted a new Vietnamese food truck over at Patricia’s Green, the park in the heart of Hayes Valley. You’d love it because I know you love food.
Ugh. That sounds so . . . awful. Who doesn’t like food? It also sounds way too much like a date.
But it wouldn’t have to look that way. We could blend in as two co-hosts grabbing some grub. Lunchtime crowds stream along Hayes Street, the sidewalks bursting with color—women in pink dresses, men in plaid shirts, cool cafés with mint awnings. It’s a lively neighborhood like Jason said. We’d have the work excuse to be seen together—we just finished our photo shoot and were hungry.
But, to ask him, I’d have to locate a box of courage inside me and rip it open.
His car cruises past the boba shop. Yes! That’s the perfect entree. He mentioned that shop. Want to grab a milk tea? I could say.
And . . . no.
That sounds weird too.
I point toward Octavia Street. “Take a right, and I’m about thirty yards down. Linden Street.”