Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Come in.”
I walk in and inhale the heavenly scent. “Something smells delicious,” I say as I turn the corner into the kitchen. Rebecca is in flannelette pajamas, makeup-free, and her hair is in a high ponytail. Just the sight of her brings a smile to my face.
“Hello.” She smiles. “Somebody told me you wanted lasagna.” She frowns when she sees my scarf. “Your neck is still stiff?”
“Yep.” I take a seat at her kitchen counter. “Something smells good.” I try to change the subject.
“It’s the least I can do when you’re helping me.” She begins to dish our dinner into bowls.
“About that.”
She keeps serving.
“You know you don’t need to do this photo thing?” I tell her. “I can loan you some money.”
She stops what she’s doing, as if annoyed.
“What?” I reply.
“I’m sick of relying on men. I want to be financially independent. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”
I knew she was going to say that.
“If you don’t have the time to help me with Foot Finder, that’s fine. I get it.” She puts the bowl down in front of me with a thud. “Trust me, uploading pictures to a pervert website is the last thing I ever imagined doing.” She slumps onto the kitchen stool beside me. “I feel like such a failure. I think I’ve hit rock bottom. If anyone ever found out about this, I would die a thousand deaths.”
Shit.
I need to be a better friend.
I take a bite. “You’re the best Italian cook I know.”
“Except that I’m not Italian.” She keeps eating.
I go over her choices. “Look, I don’t necessarily think Foot Finder is a bad thing; it’s a different thing, but not a bad thing.”
Her eyes search mine.
“Well, why don’t we put it this way . . . if you always do what you’ve always done, you will always be where you always were.”
“Yeah . . .” She stares at me for a beat. “That’s a good way of thinking about it.”
“And who cares what anyone thinks anyway.” I keep eating. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, and you should be the same. Being financially independent is a good goal to have and something to be proud of.”
She gives me a lopsided smile. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You always have a way of making me feel better.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I shrug. “Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t even set up your profile properly. We need to come up with a name before we can go any further.”
We eat in silence for a while.
“What name do you think?” she asks.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about this, and if you want my honest opinion—”
She cuts me off. “I do.”
“Maybe we make it more like a porn name, something super sexy that would appeal to a mass market.”
“Not foot related?” She frowns.
“I don’t know; it doesn’t allure me.”
“But you’re not into feet.”
“True, although I have to admit that yours are pretty cute.”
She smiles softly, and I feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Stop it.
“Okay, so what’s my stage name?” she replies with renewed excitement.
I stare at her for a moment. “Bambi.”
“Bambi?” She scrunches up her nose. “Why Bambi?”
“Because when they see you, they are going to be deer in the headlights.”
She rolls her eyes. “Dear god.”
“Trust me.” I smile. “They don’t stand a chance.”
She goes back to eating. “So we have enough photos for the week?”
“Yep, you just have to finish making your profile, and as soon as it’s approved, we can get started.”
“So how much did your friend make when she did this?” she asks.
“She was getting up to sixty dollars an image, and that was ten years ago.”
“If I could just make one hundred dollars a day, then my life would be set.”
“Well, at least until we work something else out,” I reply.
“Right.”
We finish dinner, and she gets out her computer and sits at the table while I lie on the couch and flick through the channels. “I swear this is the best couch of all time.”
“Pretty comfy,” she agrees. She keeps typing. “I heard you hooked up with Taryn the other night,” she says without looking up.
I sit up, horrified. “Who told you that?”
“So . . .” Her eyes stay on her computer screen. “Did you?”
“I . . .”
Fuck.
“Well?”
“Not that I . . .”
“What?” she snaps.
“Know of.” I wince.
Her eyes rise to meet mine. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means Taryn’s stupid punch totally screwed me over, and I can’t remember a damn thing.”
She goes back to typing.
“I don’t like her,” I stammer.
“Whatever, Blake.” Her eyes stay on her computer. “I don’t care who you sleep with anyway. It’s none of my business.”
Disappointment fills me, and I lie back down.
She stays silent as she types, and I continue pretending to watch the movie.
Great.
Now she hates me.
“Are you angry?” I ask.