Текст книги "Fever dream"
Автор книги: Elsie Silver
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CHAPTER 9
Emmett
“WHAT THE FUCK was that?” Richard starts in on me.
After we wrapped filming the introductions, he dragged me back to his production trailer, slammed the door, and started ranting.
I don’t know if he expects me to react in some specific way, which is why I make sure I don’t. I’m not one to cower or apologize—especially not to a tool like him. Hip propped against the filing cabinet behind me, I cross my arms over my chest and stare down my nose at him.
Unfortunately for him, I’ve spent the past two decades dealing with temper tantrums like this, thanks to Carl. Richard and my old man are chips off the same douchebag block. Which means I could settle him down if I wanted to.
But he’s annoying me, so I opt for pissing him off instead.
These are the things dear old dad has taught me in life: how to ride a bull really damn well and how to play fucked-up mind games.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought that went well.”
“Well? Well?” he exclaims, voice growing shriller by the second. “You could say that went well if I was trying to sell a virginal farm boy who’d never taken a girl to plow town before.”
“You certainly have a way with words,” I reply flatly, knowing my lack of apology will do nothing but set him off further.
“You looked like you were on an episode of Scared Straight out there. Like you’d never spoken to a woman before in your life. I’m making TV here, Bush. I’m selling love, but I’m also selling sex and drama and heartbreak and mess. And you’re out there acting like some pink-cheeked altar boy who doesn’t know what to say when a girl offers herself up on a platter to him.”
You’re in it for the money, I remind myself. Because right about now, talking to this fucking worm makes me want to quit without a backward glance.
“Everyone told me you were the guy. The bull rider with a chip on his shoulder. The guy who was bed-hopping every night. The guy leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. So you’re going to have to excuse me for being a little confused by the Boy Scout act.”
You’re in it for the money.
This morning, I went to the main house to check on my grandparents. I let myself in like always and headed toward the dining room where they have coffee together every morning. But today, they had stacks of bills spread out in front of them and were speaking in hushed tones about laying off staff to catch up on the payments. There was even talk of selling off one of Riley’s more competitive mounts. I didn’t know what to say, so I slunk back out, filled with renewed purpose for why I’m doing this show in the first place.
My oma and opa deserve to slow down. They deserve a retirement—or something close to it. I know they’re aging and can’t keep up with the level of physical labor that laying off staff entails. My pride, my morals, they can be set aside for a bit. It’s only six weeks.
I offer him a nonchalant shrug. “I hear you, Richard. I do. I just need a bit of camera time to get my bearings. Do you know what I mean? It felt very orchestrated, very forced. I’m not used to being myself in front of the camera and on the word go.”
“So what, you need me to pull a bull out on set, slap a belt buckle and a cowboy hat on these girls? What sort of role-play do we need to have happen to bring out the full Emmett Bush experience?”
God, I fucking hate this guy.
I swallow my pride, and it tastes sour going down. “I don’t know, something less structured? We could get off the farm or do something more active sometimes. Standing around in a suit and cowboy hat, it’s not my vibe.”
What I don’t confess is that I’m realizing the entire show is not my vibe. Or it’s not Emmett Brandt’s vibe.
Emmett Bush? He’s fine with this. But he exists on the road—far away from his family, out of sight of his siblings, and certainly not on the farm that has become a lifelong safe haven for a traumatized little boy.
I realize I’ve made the mistake of merging my two worlds. And now I don’t know how to reconcile them.
Richard glares at me, his shoulder propped against the wall. If anybody has ever given off small-dick energy, it is Richard Wadsworth.
Dick Wadsworth.
That abbreviation makes me smirk.
Dick Wad.
Even better.
His head bobs back and forth, and my new internal nickname makes him slightly less irritating.
“Okay, so we get you guys out. Less sitting around. We do B-roll out on-site for those events, but Emmett, some of it has to happen here. This is where we sunk all our money into sets for ceremonies.” He shakes his head and looks out the small sliding window toward the set. “Such a waste of resources since that new girl, Julie, spent all her time and budget on making this place look good.”
“Julia,” I correct.
His brows furrow. “What?”
“The location consultant who coordinated this set, her name is Julia, not Julie.”
His face scrunches up as though what I’m saying confuses him. “Like I give a flying fuck what her name is, as long as the job’s getting done. Same goes for you. Give me that slutty-boy energy. And whatever you do, don’t eliminate handsy Evelyn. She’s eager. Not afraid of a good catfight. We need her to bring some drama and excitement to this show if you’re going to go all nervy on me. Now get your ass back out there and mingle with the girls. There’s champagne and an opportunity for you to be less boring. Try to give me some remotely exciting closing remarks so I have something to work with for this episode.”
I shrug, fighting back the urge to roll my eyes at the guy.
He looks me over with narrowed eyes. “You do realize we are paying you and your family a lot of money to use this place? I’d hate to have to renegotiate that amount because—”
I hold up a hand, stopping him there. “Nope. I get it. I got it. I’m good.”
It’s a lie, but Richard doesn’t care. He got what he wanted. He beams back at me as I give him a terse nod before turning away.
I remind myself again that I’m in it for the money as I stride out of the trailer and begrudgingly make my way back to the set.
I’m not nervous—I’m embarrassed.
Because in a twist I was not expecting, twenty minutes on camera for this show has made me feel more like a slimy piece of meat than any careless one-night stand ever has.
I’m seated for my final interview with Teri—one of the main producers—and then I’m free until tomorrow afternoon.
I survived the champagne and chatting cocktail hour in the courtyard area outside the bunkhouse. It was a blur of names, hometowns, and awkward small talk. Overwhelming, but reassuring in a way because several of the women seemed just as uncomfortable as me.
In a way, that was the best icebreaker I could ask for.
Now I’m seated on the swinging bench I helped Julia build, around the side of the bunkhouse, away from the main gathering. It’s a spot that’s been meticulously set up for filming B-roll. Easy access to all the production trailers in the field across the gravel road that leads through the property, but still a pretty backdrop for the cameras. All thanks to Julia, no doubt.
I’m dreaming of being anywhere but here when my eyes catch on Julia leaving Dick Wad’s trailer.
Her expression gives nothing away, but there’s a tense set to her shoulders that makes me want to head her off and ask what the fuck he said to her.
She walks over to a cameraman just beyond Teri and begins speaking to him in hushed tones.
“Emmett?” Teri says, drawing my attention back to her. “Did you hear my question?”
I blink, trying to recall if I somehow heard the question when Julia Silva’s body language had me totally fixated. “I’m sorry. Long night. I must have zoned out there for a second.”
Teri smiles, pencil propped behind her ear, hair up in a messy bun. “Same. The start of a season always feels like this until we all get our bearings. Once it starts rolling, it won’t seem like so much work. I promise.”
I smile back at her and brush it off. “No problem. Can you ask me the question again?”
She nods, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. “Is there anyone here tonight that you can see a future with? Or at the very least, did you have a connection with any of the daters?”
A connection? I just met these women, though that one behaved as if we were more thoroughly acquainted than we are.
Unable to help myself, I glance over toward Julia, whose forehead is rumpled with focus. It makes me wonder what just went down, even though it’s none of my business. I have my job to do here, and she has hers. Plus, she’s the last girl in the world I should fixate on.
So I swing a hand over the back of the bench and look as casual and confident as I can before making direct eye contact with the camera. I brush away my disdain for the question and answer in a way that feels on-brand for the show.
“Yeah, there are a lot of smart, beautiful women here tonight that I can definitely see a future with.” I look away from the camera with a touch of shyness. “It’s only been a day, but damn if a couple girls didn’t stand out to me in terms of connection.” I give a good-natured chuckle, even though it’s total bullshit, and I immediately want to hurl myself into the lake to cleanse myself of the stench.
The producer laughs. “It’s so exciting to experience that kind of promise after only one night.”
I’m about to respond but, like earlier, my gaze finds Julia.
Hair slicked back, head held tall. Looking at me with a bemused tilt to her lips and one quirked eyebrow. And as if she doesn’t have enough dirt on me already, she also gets a front-row seat to my humiliation and desperation.
Because, as much as I hate the way she’s looking at me like I’m some colossal joke, I care more about making sure that my family and this farm stay afloat.
Once I’m finished with my interrogation, I set my sights on getting the fuck out of here. I thank the producer for her time and move to stand as cameras, microphones, and lights get folded up around me.
The fabric of my dress shirt sticks to my back. July in the Cascade Valley is relentlessly hot and dry. Only the nighttime temperatures take a dip, and even then, it doesn’t feel like enough for what today held. I want nothing more than a cool shower and a couple of ounces of whiskey, but Julia Silva is all up in my face before I can flee.
“Emmett,” she starts, “we need to talk.”
My shoulders rise and fall on a heavy sigh, and I groan, sounding more irritated with her than I am. She eyes me carefully before reaching into her small crossbody bag.
It’s the same one from the cruise. For a moment, I’m transported by the gold chain over her shoulder, the small purple pouch at her hip. I remember laying her down on my bed in a panic. She was heavy, lifeless, but when I held my hand under her nose, I could feel her breathing. When I lifted her arms to peel the strap off, they were dead weight, and my stomach turned over.
A million times I wondered what I should do. Respect her wishes? Or call for medical help anyway? I promised myself if things got bad, I would call the doctor, or at least notify someone on the ship. But after she’d been sick, her breathing and awareness seemed to improve.
I’d left her side only to hang this exact purse on the hook by the door before sitting at the foot of the bed, keeping a respectful distance from her and checking her breathing obsessively. I’d only left to sleep on the balcony when I was sure she’d been sleeping normally. It had taken hours.
But today she pulls her hand out of that purple leather pouch, and she’s holding a pack of gum. She pops out a little white square, lays it in her palm, and extends it in my direction.
I try to lighten the mood by saying, “What’s this for? A peace offering?”
She snorts an unladylike laugh. “No, it’s to wash down the taste of shit in your mouth after giving that interview.”
I bark out a laugh and roll my eyes as I swipe the gum from her palm.
“Walk with me,” she says, leading me away from the hustle and bustle of the set and crew wrapping up for the night.
“Richard and one of the producers wanted me to talk to you about some off-site locations in the valley where you’d like to do one-on-one dates. He’s thinking places where you’re comfortable. Ones that have some sentimental value. You know, spots where you could take the girls and share a little about yourself.”
I chuckle under my breath as my boots crunch on the gravel road. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but opening up isn’t exactly my forte.” I peek over my shoulder and give Julia an unimpressed look. “I highly doubt I’m going to start on a first date with any of these girls.”
Julia nods, slowing her steps as we make our way down the gravel road that leads toward the old cottage where I stay when I’m on the farm. It was originally my opa’s—when he moved out of his parents’ house. But now it’s mine. It’s not much, but it’s built at the back of the property toward the far fence line, so it’s private.
The bonus is that it’s walking distance to the set and bunkhouse, but I can’t even see the main barn or farmhouse from here. They’re at the front of the property, and my embarrassing venture is hidden down the road, around the corner, and behind a copse of trees. Which is fine by me.
Julia slows to a stop before turning toward me, a genuine question in her eyes. “But if you’re not…” She trails off, lips pulling from side to side as though she’s chewing over her next question.
I trace her features. Full lips. Slightly wide-set eyes. A smattering of light freckles over her nose from time spent outside, no doubt. Her tan skin shimmers with a subtle sheen of sweat.
“So if you’re not looking for a genuine connection, why did you do this show? I mean, listen. It’s not exactly what I thought it was going to be, either, but I don’t know… stranger things have happened.”
“Really, Julia? You think I’m going to put my personal life and future in the hands of Dick… Wadsworth?” I pivot away from the full Dick Wad moniker, not sure where she stands with him or if I should rag on him so blatantly. Especially when I can’t be certain how trustworthy Julia Silva is.
She snorts but doesn’t address the shortened version of Richard. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s done shows like this before. He must have a track record. Maybe his advice isn’t all bad?”
I finally turn my body to face her, rolling my eyes dramatically. “It’s a rule of mine not to take advice from men who drive Cybertrucks.”
Her lips press together and curl into her mouth as though she’s swallowing her laughter. Eventually, she sucks in a deep breath. And I can’t look away from the fullness of her mouth as she opens it, closes it, and then opens it again to speak.
“He is kind of the worst, isn’t he?”
“He is not kind of the worst. He is the worst.”
She’s looking up at me now, dark eyes brimming with one singular focus. Me.
If I wasn’t sweating already, I would be now.
“So why are you here? Make it make sense.”
I glance back toward the bunkhouse and the farm beyond it. The home I grew up in, the barn and the horses that make Stal Brandt what it is—that make our family who they are. And with one wistful sigh, I turn my attention back down on Julia and confess, “For the money.”
She looks confused. “For the money?”
“My oma and opa, they need it. Managing this place is running them into the ground. But this is a third-generation farm. This is their legacy. This is my heritage. This is where my mom grew up. If I can save it and one month of lost dignity is the price, well, I can live with that. I’ve survived worse. Richard has already subtly threatened reducing the rental fee if I don’t come to play in his sandbox.”
Several seconds of silence stretch between us. I watch Julia swallow, the slender column of her throat bobbing up and back down as she processes my words.
And then in her very matter-of-fact way, she nods once. “Well, in that case, try. Give these women a chance. You might surprise yourself and meet the girl of your dreams. And even if you don’t… own it. Go all in. Make this show your bitch. You’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose.”
Dread creeps up my spine. Could I do what she’s suggesting?
Yes, I want the money. But I don’t want to meet the girl of my dreams. I like my life the way it is. Simple. Easy. Carefree.
Which leaves me with faking it. It means I need to act like I do on the road—no strings attached. Which makes staring into the eyes of someone as hopeful and honest as Julia Silva and admitting what I’m about to do all the worse.
I can’t find the right words or even land a joke, so instead, I nod. “You’re right. I could do that.”
“Good,” she says. “Now for one date they want to send you hiking. Is there a trail in the area where you’d take someone on a hike? Somewhere I can go scout and make sure that we have all the correct permits?”
My mind races to come up with a place.
“Prickle Point,” I say. “One of my favorite spots—Parker, Riley, Evan, and I used to ride the trails there together. But the paths are perfect for hiking on foot too. If you’re here early enough tomorrow morning, I could head up there and show you.”
Emerald Lake has grown exponentially over the years. What started as a popular small town has grown into what many might consider a small city. And I have no doubt that Julia and I have experienced the same valley in very different ways. Where her family acreage has been swallowed by urban sprawl, Stal Brandt is basically still out in the boonies. Where she grew up able to afford meals at some of the more popular places in town, I grew up believing A&W was a fancy meal out because my root beer came in a chilled mug.
I’d bet my left nut she has no idea where I’m talking about.
Julia shakes her head, lifting one hand to wave me off. “Not to worry. It’s my job. You’ve already helped me enough. I’m on it. Prickle Point. I will find the spot.”
She salutes me as a way of bidding me good night and turns to walk back up the road, the silhouette of her toned body highlighted by the floodlights over the driveway.
I stand watching her until the chaos of the set swallows her outline. And then I turn back and trudge my way down toward the cottage.
Where I step into a freezing shower. And scrub my skin until it hurts.
But I skip the whiskey. Instead, I chew that piece of gum until it loses its flavor entirely.
OceanofPDF.com
OFFICIAL MEMO
To: Richard Wadsworth
From: Teri Baker
Subject: Day one report
As requested by the network, I will keep a written record summarizing day-to-day occurrences on set and submit it to you for official recordkeeping.
Night one was a success, with a few edges that will need rounding out in production.
Our bachelor started off a little stiff but seemed to soften up as the night went on. I get the sense he will come around to the process once he settles in.
Hard to say which daters Emmett has the most friction or chemistry with at this point.
As narrative unfolds in the bunkhouse, I will report back to you. Footage in the limo shows a nice little camaraderie forming between Jada, Akira, and Catherine. Evelyn did not partake in their conversation at all. In fact, rough footage captured a very evident eye roll and general irritation with the other girls.
In watching them so far I feel that Evelyn might be the perfect villain for this season. She said during B-roll that she wants to become an actress and I think she could bring some of that thespian energy to the show. I will keep an eye out for any women who we might be able to play off her.
According to the studio accounting department, the first payment to Emmett has gone through. Future payments will fall at the 50% point and upon completion.
Sincerely,
Teri Baker
Story Producer
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CHAPTER 10
Julia
I DRAG MYSELF OUT of bed after a fitful night of sleep. Thoughts about Richard, Emmett, and Emmett’s true reasons for signing up for the show kept me up thinking—overthinking.
I don’t know what I expected from him yesterday, but it wasn’t the dread on his face, or the self-loathing that coated his every move on camera.
After over two years of avoiding thinking about Emmett Bush at all costs, I caved last night and let my brain run rampant with all my questions about him.
Why does he hate my brother? If he does, then why does he speak so highly of him to his family? Why did he bother staying with me that whole night on the cruise ship when he could have dumped me off at medical? And if he’s so full of himself, why didn’t he use that night to brag about being a hero?
But all my thoughts only led me to an entirely different question: Who is Emmett Bush?
Because I’m starting to think I don’t know the answer to that at all.
Last night, I’d lain awake, replaying the moment that one contestant, Evelyn, approached him. The way she’d tugged on his tie and slipped her hand into his suit jacket as if she knew him, as if he’d invited it.
And then I’d tried to remember the look on his face. Part of me thinks he’d gone stock-still, frozen up in surprise, but maybe that was all in my head. Maybe I was just watching the interaction through the lens of someone who has avoided physical contact with the opposite sex for the past two-plus years.
I sit on the edge of my mattress, head dropped in my hands, as I search for some shreds of energy to get started on what is only day two of this show.
As I struggle to wake up, I continue to think about that moment, because something about it isn’t sitting right with me.
Clearly, I didn’t know about the financial troubles that his family or their farm had fallen into. And as I pad to the bathroom and stare back at my tired-looking face, I decide that I can’t make Emmett more comfortable than he is with what the show requires of him. But I can set the stage—seek comfortable locations—for great TV that will make completing the task a bit easier for him.
It’s a simple, neighborly sort of kindness.
My mom has often told me that we can only control what only we can control. And this is exactly that.
A fresh lens on the experience makes me feel better about my role in this seedy mess. With a steadier focus, I twist my unruly curls up into a bun on my way to the kitchen. The rich scent of coffee fills the air after I press the start button on the pot I had the foresight to prep before bed—despite being dog-tired.
Once it’s ready, mug in hand, I pad out into my plant-infested living room and plunk down on my too-soft love seat. My laptop waits on the cushion beside me. I flick it open and type “Prickle Point” into the search bar, wondering where it is and why, even though I grew up in the same valley, I’ve never heard of it.
After one full cup of coffee, my search is still fruitless, and the first stubborn knots of frustration tighten in my shoulders. Not because I can’t find it. Because, like it or not, I am going to have to ask Emmett for help after all.
A quick search through my inbox pulls up his phone number from the staff directory the studio sent me. I swore I’d never use it to contact him directly. But today, I cave.
I frown as my fingers tap across the screen of my phone.
Julia
Hi. It’s Julia. I don’t know if you’re awake yet, but when you have a moment, could you clarify the location of Prickle Point?
I toss my phone down and pad back to the kitchen to refill my coffee, irritated that I had to resort to asking him for help. When I get back to my seat, he’s already responded.
Emmett
Which Julia?
My eyes roll. What a douche.
Julia
The one who agreed not to tell her brother about your offseason shenanigans but who still could, at any moment, if the inclination strikes her.
Emmett
Blackmail. Nice. How very un-Silva of you.
I bristle at that. I am very Silva. I am kind. I’m just not… peppy the same way as my mom and brother.
Julia
Pretending you have too many Julias in your phone to keep track of? How very on-brand.
Emmett
Don’t worry. I have your contact card squared away now. And it’s very on-brand.
He sends a screenshot through. And as much as I hate myself for it… I smirk. The contact with my number below it reads: Julia Theo’s Hot Little Sister.
Julia
That’s so funny. I have you in my phone as Emmett the Guy Who Lost to Theo. Now quit dicking around and tell me where Prickle Point is.
Emmett
After a mean text like that? Unlikely.
I groan and glance up at the ceiling. I’m negotiating with a toddler.
Julia
Okay. I’ll just make my way to Stal Brandt. Spend some quality time with Leon and Tina. I bet they can tell me where it is.
Emmett
Well, they love you, so that would probably make their day.
Okay, that backfired. I thought he’d want to keep me as far away as possible from his family. And as much as I don’t hate the idea of inhaling a few more of those freshly baked cookies, time is of the essence.
Julia
Can you please help me be efficient about this? I don’t want Richard on my ass.
Emmett
I really hate the mental imagery that comes with that sentence.
Julia
Enough to help me?
Emmett
If you let me come with you, I could show you where it is.
Julia
No, thanks. Let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours. You’ve helped me enough already.
Emmett
What’s my job?
Julia
To find a wife. Or girlfriend. Or whatever.
Emmett
That’s exactly what I’m trying to do right now.
My brows furrow as I blink at the screen. Does he mean that? I glance down at myself. Oversize Shania Twain T-shirt. Boy-short underwear. And prickly legs because shaving is just too much fucking work sometimes.
Surely not.
I decide to breeze past that comment. This man would flirt with a rock before he’d flirt with me.
“Hot Little Sister” comment notwithstanding.
Julia
Drop the location.
His next text message is a dropped pin for a place called Mount Bouchard. Clearly, Prickle Point is an unofficial name for the place, but he doesn’t elaborate on that. No words, no innuendo, no jokes.
And strangely, I’m a little disappointed by his silence.
I prepare myself for the day, already knowing that Richard will want a report the minute I step into his office about my first scouted off-site location. I shower, begrudgingly shave my legs, slather myself in sunscreen, and slick my hair back, too tired to straighten it like I normally do.
With the temperatures rising, I pull on a loose pair of jogging shorts and a sports bra, tossing a T-shirt into my bag for later. There’s no way I’m going into Richard’s office wearing only a bra.
Sneakers tied, I hop in my car and head south, weaving through the streets of Emerald Lake before most businesses have even opened. A few early risers are seated on patios, reading the paper and enjoying a cappuccino before the temperature spikes. Even more people are out walking, running, or biking along the lakeside path, all attempting to beat the heat.
The lake glimmers a shimmering navy blue under a cloudless azure sky. For now, the water is still, but soon, boats, Jet Skis, and loud thumping music will overtake it and turn it from a marvel of nature into a tourist playground. But that’s summer here in Emerald Lake.
I turn at one of the town’s major intersections, away from the lake and toward the rows of vines that cover the slopes nearest the water. Wineries stretch throughout the valley, another draw for visitors. Emerald Lake is one of Canada’s top wine-producing locations, but it’s also home to many other agricultural industries. Fruit, vegetables, dairy farming, ranching—the valley’s diversity is staggering.
I admire the scenery. The farther I get from the lake, the more rugged and rural the landscape becomes. The hot, arid hills that are home to Stal Brandt glow a light brown against the darker shades of the mountain rocks and coniferous trees.
My GPS leads me toward Mount Bouchard, a.k.a. Prickle Point, which practically borders the farm. I’ve decided that parking on set is the easiest solution. According to the digital map, all I have to do is ditch my car at the crew’s designated parking area and take the gravel lane past Emmett’s cottage. Behind it, a gate leads off the property and onto the backcountry road that runs next to the trailhead.
It makes perfect sense that Emmett and his siblings would ride out this way, and I want to walk that same path. To see where he’d have gone as a child. It’s all part of the story that this scene will tell.
Parked and ready by eight a.m., I zip my keys and phone into my hip bag and head out under the already scorching sun. I make my way down the gravel road that Emmett and I had strolled mere hours before. His cottage comes into view up ahead. Unlike the main house, it’s not as well kept, though I suspect it may have once matched it fairly well.
Cedar shakes cover the cottage, but unlike the main house, these are weathered, making them appear more gray than brown. The windows are trimmed in red instead of blue, the paint cracked and this close to peeling. It’s missing the matching tin roof, and no lush gardens soften the worn edges of the property. A barnwood archway frames a gate that opens onto cracked, circular stepping stones. Follow those and you find yourself at a small front step below a faded red door.
Our budget didn’t allow for a full update of the property. Richard had mentioned the slightly run-down appearance gave Emmett a real “salt-of-the-earth” appeal for the girls.
I’d bristled at that hot take. Maybe I’m small-town in my tastes, but I find the cottage incredibly charming.
Unlike the man living inside.
My hope when I headed out this morning was that Emmett would be gone for the day. He was adamant to the producers that work around the farm still needs to get done and that his mornings will be set aside for that.
But as I draw closer to the cottage, it becomes clear that where he’s concerned, hope is not enough.
Because there he is. Sitting on a rocking chair on his front porch, sipping a cup of coffee, wearing nothing but his boxers and a generous layer of muscles. He grins at me like I’m the most amusing thing he’s seen in his life.
“Good morning, Baby Silva,” he calls with a jovial wave that seems more mocking than genuine.
“Is this what you do?” I reply, wagging a finger at him as I approach the picket fence surrounding the yard. “Just sit outside wearing your underwear, hoping a girl comes by to admire you?”
