Camera Shy (Lessons in Love Book 1)

“Oh, babe, this is not a good look.” My best friend, Palmer, bursts through the front door of her apartment, mercilessly flicking on the overhead light of my bedroom. And by “my bedroom,” I mean her living room couch, which has been my primary domain for the past few days since the night of my birthday.

Palmer drops a large cardboard box on her living room coffee table, which has become my desk, my dresser, and my dining table. I eye the slinky black dress lying at the top of the box.

Sitting up, I give Palmer my most unamused side glance. “I said pick up some comfy clothes. My little”—well, technically medium—“black dress is not comfortable.”

Palmer gets in my face so her nose is barely an inch from my own. Her makeup is flawless as usual. She should be giving lessons on contouring. Makeup tutorials might pay better than her lackluster acting career. The ironic part is while Palmer is phenomenal at makeup, she doesn’t need it. Her tone is perfectly even, her skin looks like she has no pores, and her bright baby blue eyes don’t need adornment. They are striking all by themselves. What’s more—Palmer’s platinum, almost white-blond hair is completely natural. Some women were just born in the light.

“You don’t need comfortable. You need a sexy black dress and to get laid.”

I resist rolling my eyes at her ridiculous statement. “Are you offering?”

She scrunches up her nose like I smell. “Maybe…if you shower first.” She peels away a piece of my hair that was glued to my cheek from dried drool. Snorting in laughter, I plant my palm against her forehead and push her away. “I did pick up some of your sweatpants, though, so you’re welcome.”

“I love you.” I give her a half-smile.

Palmer, my savior. My best—no, more accurately, my only—friend in the world right now. It’s not because it’s hard for me to make friends. It’s just hard for me to maintain them. I love to work. I love my job. My job as a brand consultant is very social. I spend a lot of my waking hours behind the scenes, researching and designing, but client meetings are still a huge chunk of my calendar. Virtual or not, it’s still social. I also study people and their behavior all day. Researching what makes people click, buy, and review. My job is creating connections, so my tolerance for social interaction outside of work is relatively low. But Palmer doesn’t let me go into the lonely cave. Every time I bury myself in manic obsessive work, she straps on a harness and dives into the depths to yank me out of the dark pits of my solitary confinement. She forces me to see sunshine.

Mason calls us uncomfortably symbiotic and needy. Maybe he’s right… I need Palmer to tell me I should own at least one pair of shoes that don’t have the word “comfort” in their brand name and Palmer needs me to tell her car wash bikini model is not a real job and will never allow her to plan for retirement.

Mason… Fuck. I even flinch when I say his name in my head.

I nod toward the box. “How’s he doing?”

Palmer spins around and glares at me from her kitchen. She slams two bottles of water on her kitchen countertop. “We don’t care how Mason is doing right now.”

“Palmer.” I narrow my eyes. “How does he look?”

Her hand trails down the taut line of her slim waist and lands on the slight curve of her hip. “Like shit.”

Funny. He dumped me. Shouldn’t he look relieved?

Since I walked out on Mason at the restaurant, we’ve had no contact outside of work. We have an unspoken agreement to stay cordial through work emails. We’re not in the process of onboarding any new clients and are mostly just maintaining current contracts. It doesn’t require a lot of intra-office communication. Outside of a few forwarded messages from clients asking for SEO analytics and metric reports, Mason and I don’t have anything pertinent to say to each other workwise.

But personally, has been an entirely different story.

He’s called a few times, but I don’t answer. He’s texted me to ask how I’m doing, which I find more patronizing than kind. I could block him. But I don’t. I like for the phone to ring so he knows I’m here…just out of reach. He knows I’m staying with Palmer, but he’s smart enough not to come here. Palmer once threatened to chop Mason’s dick off with gardening shears if he ever broke my heart. Who knows what she’s capable of now that we’re living the reality.

“Aves.” Palmer’s tone is drastically serious. Devoid of sass, she says, “It’s time to get up. Let’s go for a walk and get some sunshine. Block him. You’re not this weak.”

I sigh as I smooth back my flyaways and pull my thick hair into a low, side-swept ponytail. “Do you remember the time I had to pick you up from the border because your car was confiscated when you tried to sneak in like fifty bottles of cheap tequila from Tijuana?”

“Yes,” she says in a huff.

“Remember how you didn’t even have money to pay for gas for the return trip?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah.”

“And remember the time I had to drive to Las Vegas and pick you up because you got drunk and got locked in what can only be described as some type of stripper birdcage contraption? They wouldn’t let you out until you paid your massive bar tab—that you couldn’t afford?”

She sucks in air against her teeth. “Vaguely.”

“Mhmm, and who covered the bill?”

“You did,” she mumbles.

“And remember when—”

“Oookay, what’s your point, Aves? That I’m a fuckup and you’re way more put together than I am?”

I purse my lips. “No, honey. No.” I press my fingertips against my closed eyelids and feel the cool metal on my ring finger against my cheek. “What I’m trying to say is I’ve had your back through every situation—your highs and lows. I am your biggest cheerleader. I’m the one who told you smuggling cheap tequila over the border was just savvy shopping, that you can’t take your money to your grave so why hold onto it so hard, and that anyone with a blood alcohol level of point-one would of course willingly crawl into a stripper cage—you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her eyes hit the ceiling. “And you believe none of that.”

I blow out a breath and shake my head fervently. “Not a damn word. But I love you. And my job as your best friend is to support you and let you come through things in your own time and your own way. Right now, I need you to do the same.”

Her eyes lock onto the ring on my finger. Why am I still wearing this thing? Maybe I’m pretending. In my mind, I found the damn thing in the cake, wiped it clean, slipped it on my finger to see Mason on his knee, asking me to marry him…not dumping me.

“Did he actually ask you?”

“What?” I squint at her odd question.

“You’re wearing the ring. He said he didn’t officially ask you…to marry him.”

What a freaking odd thing to say. “You guys talked about it?”

I sent Palmer to get me some clothes and toiletries. I didn’t realize she’d sit down to have a heart-to-heart with Mason.

“No.” She shrugs. “Briefly,” she adds. “Obviously, we crossed paths and as I was leaving, I asked him why the hell he would propose to you, just to break up with you five seconds later. When he said he didn’t ask, I asked if he wanted the ring back…”

I narrow my eyes at her. That’s not your place to ask, Palmer. “He told me to keep it.”

“Odd.”

“Indeed. I now own a guilty conscience, non-engagement ring.” Which is worse than no ring at all. I stare at my finger, knowing I’m going to need a vat of Vaseline to get this off. Why would Mason buy this in a ring size too small? Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe he thought a proposal would shrink me and by some miracle I’d squeeze into his standards. The ass.

She points at me, her sparkly gold nail polish catching a glint of sun pouring in through the shades. “You should pawn it.”

Rising, I stretch my arms overhead and crack my fingers. My muscles resist like they are permanently frozen in the sit and lie position. Standing…moving…it all feels like a foreign concept and my body protests. I’ve lost four days of my life, moping. It’s time to get the blood flowing again. “I’m going for a coffee. Can I get you something?” I grab my purse from the floor and sling it around my shoulder.

Palmer’s eyes turn to slits. “You better not be going to see him. I won’t let my best friend beg her ex to take her back. He doesn’t deserve you.”

I love her with my whole heart, but her bossiness triggers me. I’m already torn and tormented, and right now I don’t need anyone telling me what I am or am not allowed to do. My heart is bleeding, my jealousy is on fire, and my head is exploding…I’m already juggling too many emotions.

“Palmer, please. I’m thirty years old. You have to let me breathe. I said I’m going to get coffee, but if and when I choose to talk to Mason, I won’t be asking for your permission.”

“Well, you’re staying here indefinitely, right? I thought my job was to protect you from yourself?” Her lips press into a hard line. Her whole demeanor is overly agitated. I’m not proud to say this, but right now I kind of wish I had a friend to tell me that if I wanted to salvage my relationship, it was an option. Maybe it’s a long, hard, broken road, but if I wanted to win him back, the path is still an option.

The truth is Mason could’ve cheated and gotten away with this. I would’ve been none the wiser. I trusted him so much, I never suspected a damn thing. If he was really a pig, he could’ve just lied… But he told the truth. He wasn’t happy. Is he wrong for not wanting to commit to a life of lackluster sex? Did I play a role in the demise of our relationship? I never knew he wanted the sexy girl. I thought loyalty, kindness, patience, and intelligence were enough. Am I dumb for thinking our situation was enough to make him happy?

And the biggest question—was I happy? Or was I just goal-focused? Am I even ready to ask that question that will unravel the past four years of my life?

No.

I want some peace and quiet.

I want to not pick at the wound while it’s so fresh.

I want to stop feeling so broken, weak, and insecure.

I want an overpriced fancy coffee.

“Iced skinny caramel macchiato with no drizzle?” I ask Palmer, making my intentions clear. I’m going where I want, whether you like it or not.

She nods reluctantly. “Thank you.”

I blow her a kiss as I pass the kitchen to make my way to the front door.

“Wait, you’re going right now?”

“Yes?” I scrunch up my face, confused at her surprise.

“Looking like that?” She eyes me up and down.

Fucking geez, Palmer. I mean, she’s not wrong. My pajama shorts are frayed a little at the bottom. My baggie beige T-shirt looks like it came from a Goodwill’s reject pile. But for the love of God, I’m in my mourning phase of the breakup. Let me mourn.

“I’m going through the drive-through,” I say haughtily and slip out the door before she can say another damn word.

The normally obnoxiously long line at the Starbucks drive-through is quick today. So quick, in fact, that after picking up a hot latte for myself and Palmer’s iced drink, I circle back to the parking lot, roll my windows down, and grant myself a moment of quiet.

I’m still agitated at our interaction and am in no hurry to run back to her apartment. I can’t go home. It’s clear I can’t keep holing away at my friend’s place unless I develop rubber skin so her bossy, passive-aggressive jabs can bounce right off of me. I forgive her because Palmer has the best intentions and she’s the only friend I have who would immediately drop what she’s doing, scoop me up from a restaurant on the opposite side of town, and hold me all night while I cried on her shoulder. She’s also the friend who thinks vodka is a perfectly appropriate way to start the morning. That’s exactly the energy I need right now after having my boyfriend of four years tell me that instead of marrying me, he wants to sample his other options.

I promised myself I wouldn’t look her up.

But dammit, it’d be so easy.

Maura…from the gym…who is a trainer. I bet I could go to Edge Fitness’s website right now, scroll to the staff page, and see her beautiful face and perfectly shaped body. There’s no doubt in my mind this woman is stunning. I bet in comparison I look like a bump on a pickle. I just didn’t know Mason was looking. I know I shouldn’t check her out. It’s only going to drive me absolutely insane. The next two years of my life will be a comparison game to this woman who will become a beauty beacon in my mind. What’s the point? Why torture myself?

Curiosity…that’s why.

I let my fingers dance over the keyboard letters…www-dot-edge—

My phone rings, startling me and yanking me away from temptation. By now I just assume it’s Mason, so I instinctively move to hit the decline button. Instead, Dexter Hessler flashes across the screen—one of my favorite long-term clients. I slap a perky smile on my face even though he can’t see me.

“Hello?”

“Avery. Helloooo.” Dex’s cheery voice is so loud through the car’s Bluetooth I have to lunge for the volume button to turn his energy down. Whew. “Sorry to call you on a Saturday. I hate being that client.”

“No problem at all, Dex. How are you?”

“Fuckin’ great! This is a happy call, by the way, where I tell you that the egregious amount of money I paid you and Mason was well worth it and I earned it back tenfold.”

I chuckle. “Glad to hear it. Care to share the specifics?”

“We booked the entire summer for guided tours. Every single slot is filled and the trip is more than funded. Not to mention the entire line of the new Aqualung fins and wetsuits are sold out. The gear hasn’t even shipped yet. My mind is blown.”

Dive and surf shops are wildly competitive. Dex needed an edge to make his little business competitive. Mason and I loved working on developing the Best Fishes brand. Dex didn’t even have a real logo and his marketing package was messy. I invented an entire new look, defined a color palette, and curated entirely new brand messaging. While I worked with Dex to increase his social media presence by making one-minute educational videos of gear care, emergency preparation, and the different types of scuba certifications, Mason dove into SEO. If you Google scuba shops in the state of California, Best Fishes now shows up on the first page, which was a nearly impossible feat for a company based in Las Vegas, over five hours away from the California beaches where they certify their students.

“Dex, I’m so happy to hear it. Where are you starting the guided tours?”

“Cozumel. Then off to the Cayman Islands.”

“Incredible.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to come on one trip? Just pay your way in travel and I’ve got you covered for the tour, gear, and everything else. It’s going to be beautiful.”

Sharks? Me in a skintight wet suit? Both comparable threats.

“No, thanks. I’m not a big water person.”

“Yet you live in California?”

“Anyway…” I take a long sip from my hot coffee. Why I’m drinking hot coffee in the eighty-degree weather, I don’t know. It’s a thing of mine. To me, coffee was meant to be brewed and served hot. I would sip on a piping hot latte in the flames of hell. “You enjoy your trip, just make sure your content manager stays on top of consistent posting. Mason and I will handle the web traffic and make sure we’re staying on top of the search results competition. But right now, social is what’s really going to continue to drive sales—brand presence. So don’t let your social guy slack, okay? You can always call me if you need a helping hand while you guys are traveling.”

“You’re amazing, Avery. You’re due for a raise—”

“You pay us plenty.”

“Thank you. I feel like I can go into this summer worry-free. You’ve handled everything. Well, almost…” He trails off. I wait for a moment as it’s obvious he’s texting. When he doesn’t continue, I jump back in.

“Is there something else I can help you with, Dex?”

“Sorry,” he mutters distractedly. He sounds far away like he pulled the phone away from his ear. “Another one bites the dust.” He grumbles in agitation. Giving me his full attention again, he says, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who doesn’t already have summer plans and needs a job, would you?”

“Do you need another assistant for the scuba tours?” It’s not my typical job, but I’m happy to research anything for Dex. He’s such a good client and always in a good mood. I’m sure it has something to do with his family money and wanting for nothing. While he desperately needed help with his business, he works because he likes to, not because he has to. “We could do a listing for a summer assistant job, but you’d probably have to include travel expenses and meals for perks.”

He laughs. “Oh no, I have enough hands on deck for the tours and enough mouths to feed. I need a pet sitter for the summer.”

“You have a pet?” That’s odd. Dex travels so much. His life mission is to explore every inch of every sea and ocean in the world. He’s going to be brain-dead by the time he’s fifty from all the time he spends breathing from an oxygen tank and living in the pressurized depths of the world below.

“Sort of. More of a house sitter,” he explains. “I have a guy who maintains my aquariums, but I need someone there to feed some of my saltwater fish daily. They are somewhat high-maintenance. Auto feeders are good for maybe a week or two, but not the whole summer. This is the longest I’ll be away from home and I can’t risk losing my fish, nor do I want to get slapped with all these HOA fines.”

“You travel all the time. Who normally feeds your fish?”

“Employees from the dive shop. Or, my next-door neighbor is always willing to lend a hand. But that’s for a couple of days here and there. Maintaining tropical saltwater fish and tanks is way more involved than just feeding them and I can’t take over his entire summer. Not to mention there was that one time he poisoned my Damselfish with Fruit Loops. I question his ability to handle this.”

I balk. “Your neighbor tried to kill your fish?”

“Not on purpose. He couldn’t find more fish food and didn’t want them to go hungry.”

I snicker to myself as I perk up in my seat, tasting my reckless words before they fall out of my mouth. “Just for the summer?” Just enough time for me to figure out my next steps.

“Yeah. I’ve asked around, but so far, the only people who are interested are wild-ass college students on break who just want a free house to host orgies after getting shit-faced on the Strip.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I’ll stay at your place for the summer, feed your fish, and make sure everything you need gets done. I most definitely don’t do orgies, and after three years of working together, let’s hope you already know you can trust me.”

“Are you serious? How much would you charge?”

“Free.” You’re doing me a favor.

“You’re kidding. Mason would be okay with moving for the summer?”

I grumble as I take another sip of my white chocolate mocha. “Okay, one cost. It’d just be me and you can’t ask me why or about Mason. Deal?”

“Deal.” I can tell by his tone he has questions, but as instructed, he sidesteps his concern. “Okay, well, great! Damn, Avery, you’re really saving my ass here. I’ll text you all the details. I have a really nice place. I swear you’ll love it. I’ll have it professionally cleaned and I’ll clear out my drawers and stuff so you can take over the master bedroom if you want. And the Las Vegas Strip is only like fifteen minutes from my place when you feel like going out.”

I glance down at my baggy white T-shirt. Highly unlikely. I want to use Dex’s place as a hideout while I collect my thoughts. Out requires talking to people. In is what I’m aiming for. “When do you need me?”

“The sooner the better, actually. If I had your help, I might be able to squeeze in a dive to Cancun for just me and my girlfriend before the summer craziness starts. How soon is too soon? Do you need to get things sorted with work first?”

I can work from anywhere. Las Vegas is a five-hour drive from the outskirts of L.A. I’d need exactly eight hours—one to sneak into my apartment and collect a few things, one to get my oil changed at the Oil Express up the road, one hour to explain myself to Palmer, then five for the drive. But I’m not trying to come off that desperate. I stare at the ring still wedged onto my left finger. In a fit of excitement, or maybe rage, I finally rip it off my finger, which seems to have shrunk the tenth of an inch necessary to relieve me of this diamond burden.

“How’s next Thursday? Gives you time to show me the ropes and take off before the weekend?”

“Perfect,” Dex says. “I’ll make the arrangements. Avery, thank you. You’re my lifesaver in all things now.”

No, no, Dex…

Thank you.