Camera Shy (Lessons in Love Book 1)

“Dibs,” Palmer says as she drops her purse on Dex’s marble kitchen counter. “And holy shit, this place is amazing.” Her face twists into a wicked smile. “How serious are Dex and his girlfriend?”

I flatten a stare at her. “Soul mates, ride or die, Bonnie and Clyde serious. Don’t even think about—”

“Jesus,” she grumbles as she spins in place, looking up, taking in the high ceilings and exposed beams. “I’m kidding obviously.”

“Homewrecking,” I mutter under my breath. “Hilarious.”

I’m torn between grateful and annoyed that Palmer is here. She insisted on helping me drive out and get settled, but she had an audition yesterday. Waiting on Palmer meant me missing Dex before he left. He texted me instructions and left a key under the mat for me. Apparently, the fish guy will be here on Monday to teach me how to feed the fish. I mean, it’s fish in tanks…I’m fully capable of sprinkling flakes into water, but whatever makes Dex feel more comfortable, I’m happy to oblige.

“The ‘dibs’ wasn’t about Dex, by the way.” Palmer immediately finds and opens the hidden fridge that matches the sleek black cabinetry with gold handles. She pulls out two beers, but I shake my head.

“It’s ten in the morning on a Friday.” I grab one beer and then place it back into the beverage compartment of the fancy fridge. “And I need to get a little work done this afternoon.”

“Ugh,” she responds, rolling her eyes. “How come you work for yourself, from home in your pajamas most days, but you still have that stick wedged firmly up your asshole? If I made the money you do, with the schedule you have, I’d be enjoying my life thoroughly.”

“Yeah, and how do you think that money is earned, Palmer? I work in my pajamas because not worrying about getting fixed up for the day gives me an extra hour of work time in front of the screen before my brain melts.”

She twists the cap off her beer. It’s a foreign label I don’t recognize, but it certainly looks upmarket. I knew Dex was well-off…I didn’t know he was this well-off. Of course he drinks lavish beer. “I’m a small business owner too, and yet I still find a way to have fun.”

Palmer’s a part-time influencer, part-time makeup artist, and full-time desperately-want-to-be-famous, struggling actress. It’s not quite the same. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m not fun. Maybe that’s part of the reason Mason saw our relationship as a duty and a chore.

Fuck. Mason.

It’s been a little over a week since my birthday. I am trying to be numb. I would rather be numb than collapse. I am trying not to let the demons in my mind sneak up on me and tell me that somehow the man I loved for almost half a decade lost his way because I wasn’t doing my part in the relationship.

It’s not just the weight. It’s how you dress…or don’t. You never put on makeup. We live off of garbage takeout food. We’re sloppy. There’s nothing sexy or appealing about the way we are around each other…

I can’t stop replaying that night in my head. Over and over. Mason is an ass…he’s a no-good shallow ass…a fucking worthless asshole…

But did I play a part?

Did I push him to be the worst version of himself?

Stop. Don’t go there. Stay numb.

“What were you saying about a dibs?”

She takes another swig from her beer and sets the glass bottle down on the counter too hard. The loud clink makes me flinch.

“Be careful,” I hiss. “This is not my home.” I place her bottle in the large trough sink before running my fingers over the kitchen island granite, worried Palmer chipped it.

Paying me no mind, she says, “The runner from before. Whoever that is—dibs.”

A ripple of annoyance flows through me. Palmer gets every man she wants, and once she sets her sights on something, I know better than to try and compete. I noticed him too. I’ve never seen a man that good-looking in my life. Tall, tan, strong jawline, with perfectly styled jet-black hair. But when I close my eyes, all I see is the smile he flashed me. It looked so sweet and innocent. It didn’t match his body, which screamed dirty lust. Perhaps because his pecs and six-pack were glistening with sweat while he stood in the near-blinding sunlight.

Beautiful people. I swear they glow even when they aren’t trying to.

“Palmer, you can’t dibs him. He’s not the front seat of a car or the first pick from a litter of golden doodles.”

She cocks one eyebrow. “How do I put this delicately?” Rolling her wrist, she says, “I want that man to wear me like a condom that’s one size too small and let me choke the life out of his dick.”

“Wow.”

“Unless you’re”—with her palm facing up, she points her index finger at me—“interested?”

I shake my head aggressively and laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

“Um, do you have eyes?” she asks.

I blow out a breath. “I didn’t say he wasn’t attractive. I said I’m not interested. I’m a realist. He’s a little too hot for me, don’t you think?”

She finds the curve of her hip with her hand. “Excuse me?”

Uh-oh. Palmer’s a lot of things. A hot mess. A mooch. The person who reminds me that I should probably get a pedicure more than once a year and that my favorite bra gives me major uniboob. But she’s the only person who can say it because she loves me. She protects me. She does not tolerate when I’m self-deprecating.

She’s stoic as she glares at me, so I continue, “Oh, come on. Be realistic. That man we saw jogging is ten times sexier than Mason, and I can’t even keep the one I have interested.” I suck in a breath as the pang in my chest gets dangerously close to the wall I’ve built around my heart. Stop it. I am numb. “Had. I mean had.”

Palmer lowers her voice. “Avery Leigh Scott.” She narrows her eyes. “You are beautiful. Yes, you need new clothes, new shoes, and for the love of God, let me teach you how to contour your face properly, but you are a fucking ten inside and out and could pull any man you want.” She closes the space between us and yanks me into what can only be called an aggressive hug. “I love you.”

“I know,” I mumble into a mouthful of her hair.

She sniffles as she pulls away and looks directly into my eyes. I fight the urge to look away from her intense stare. “I know you agreed to stay here to run away from me.”

“Palmer…” I let out an exasperated sigh. She’s half right. Why lie? “I need a summer to find myself.”

“I’m your best friend,” she says with a disingenuous smile. “You can’t find yourself around me?”

“I need space to figure out…” What do I need to figure out? It’s really hard to solve a problem when you refuse to let yourself face it.

“Please, please, tell me you’re not considering trying to get him back. This isn’t even about your feminine power, okay? You guys aren’t—” She buries her face in both hands and shakes her head in frustration. Taking a deep breath, she drops her arms to her side and pleads with me. “You deserve better. You deserve a man who doesn’t think being with you is settling.”

Her words sting. This is why I needed to spend my summer here, away from it all. I need a break from the truth Mason shoved down my throat. The worst part is he almost went through with it. Apparently, I’m good enough to marry, but not intriguing enough to fuck. I wish it didn’t bother me, but it does…

So much.

What woman doesn’t want to be treated as beautiful, desirable, and tempting? Part of intimacy is sex. How is it possible I’m so good at one but lacking miserably at the other?

“What I deserve is the time and space to get through this in my own way.”

She nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay—”

Her phone ringing interrupts us. Palmer scrambles for her phone, all jittery and twitchy like she’s about to wiggle out of her own skin. She’s always like this after auditions, and I don’t want to see the heartbreak in her eyes if it’s bad news. Excusing myself from the kitchen, I explore Dex’s main living room.

There are two large fish tanks that seem to be built into the walls. I don’t even understand how to access them. Does the wall come apart? What the fuck? How do the fish eat? How does the aquarium guy clean this tank?

From what I understand, the higher maintenance fish are in the saltwater tanks, which are upstairs. Those are the ones that need careful tending to. The fish down here live off of auto feeders and nutrient-enriched water. They are beautiful swimming around in their little enclosures, none the wiser that the world is so much bigger than these glass walls. But maybe it’s better—they can’t get hurt in here. I know some people think aquariums are cruel and that fish should swim in the ocean…

But at least they won’t be shark food in here. Is that such a bad life? Cared for, cleaned, fed, and admired? Or is running and hiding for life daily a fair price to pay for freedom?

I follow the tiniest fish in the largest tank darting back and forth in a tizzy. It’s cherry-colored. Not quite red, not quite pink, right in the middle and slightly iridescent. How strange. It looks like it forgot something and it’s struggling to remember exactly what it’s doing.

“I got an audition,” Palmer says right behind me, making me jump and smack my palm against the fish tank.

Cherry, as I’ve dubbed my little fish friend, is stunned. It’s staring right at me like I just caused an earthquake in its little paradise. I cringe. Dex did warn me never to tap the glass. It’s cruelly disorienting for the fish. Sorry, Cherry.

Spinning around, I face Palmer. “When’s the callback?”

“Not that audition.” She grimaces. “That was a bust. They’re going with some baby-faced coed, because Chase Ford likes them young.” She grunts in frustration.

Anytime Palmer doesn’t land an audition, the casting directors and the movie stars they’ve cast become the ultimate enemy. Apparently, Hollywood heartthrob Chase Ford is no exception.

“I’m pretty positive he’s married.” I swear I saw him and his new wife on a magazine cover. “She’s not an actress. She’s an artist or something. Noa—”

“Like marriage stops these Hollywood fuckboys from cheating. Please. Anyway, moving on. My agent got me an audition for a lead in a new pilot. The main actress dropped out last minute for some reason.” Her eyes widen. “It’s a big deal. It’s like the next Breaking Bad or something.”

“Palmer, that’s amazing! When is it?”

“They want me to read for them by tonight. They have to make a decision ASAP.”

“Let’s go.” I nod over my shoulder. “I’ll drive you home.” My back is still a little stiff from the five-hour drive out here, but good God, this could finally be her big break.

“It’s not in L.A., Aves. It’s in New Mexico. Albuquerque.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if—”

“Take my car.”

Her big eyes grow even larger. “What? And leave you stranded here?”

I waltz past her to fetch my keys from my purse. I lay them on the counter and pull up Google Maps on my phone. “You’ve got at least an eight-hour drive, and that’s if traffic behaves. Go. Hell, your suitcase is still in the car. It was meant to be.”

“Aves, I…”

I wink at her. “I know. You can call me from the road to tell me how amazing I am. But seriously, go. This is your moment, Palmer. Finally. I really believe it and I believe in you. Just drive safe. Do not try to read lines on the highway.”

She nods, her smile growing. “Okay.” She grabs the keys from where I placed them and wraps her arm around my neck, pulling me into one more quick hug. “Do you need anything out of the car?” she asks as she fetches her purse from the other side of the kitchen island.

“Nope. I brought everything of mine in.”

“Okay,” she says again, blowing out a quick breath. Spinning on her heel, she hustles toward the front door. “Thank you, Aves,” she calls without turning around.

“Oh wait, only eighty-seven and up for the Jeep,” I call after her. “Don’t put cheap gas in—”

Bang.

The front door slams and she’s out of earshot.

Thirteen days.

Thirteen days is how long it takes for my self-restraint to crumble and for me to go to Edge Fitness’s website and find Maura Montoya. Suspicions confirmed—she’s a total fucking knockout. This woman outshines even Palmer, and that’s really hard to do. Her body is flawless. She’s muscular, yet with feminine curves. Her stomach is so flat that if she lay down, you could set a wine glass on it without worrying it’d spill. Her shoulder-length hair is a richer shade of brown than mine and she’s at least three shades tanner than me. She looks sun-kissed, like she’s not afraid to show off her body on the beach. But enough rambling…

A simpler way to sum up Maura is that she is quite literally my polar opposite.

I dove head first into the rabbit hole. Within twenty minutes, I found Maura’s Facebook page, Instagram profile, and watched several of her videos on TikTok about proper form when deadlifting. I really want to hate her, but what did she do wrong besides exist?

It’s been nearly two weeks…

I wonder if Mason has asked her out yet.

It’d be a little easier if she had resting bitch face, but not only is she stunning, she’s also charming. I bet her client list is booked solid. I teach the business owners, Dex included, about this effect. Charisma. When you market a great personality, you could sell salt to a slug with ease. People want personable, relatable, and authentic. Those are the three magic ingredients to brand loyalty.

As if his ears are burning, an incoming phone call from Mason halts my social media stalking. I could send him to voicemail, but seeing as I’ve already been internet stalking his potential new girlfriend, I’m embracing my current masochist mentality.

“What?” I answer in the flattest monotone I can muster.

“You answered,” Mason says, sounding surprised.

“You called,” I snap.

He huffs through the phone, encouraging my frustration. “Avery, can we please be civil? We have a business together. Remember when people told us not to start a fifty-fifty LLC together? Remember how we told them we worked really well together and we would never let our relationship interfere with what we created?”

Remember when I thought you loved me and we were going to be together forever?

But he’s right.

We do work well together, and the only relationship I had that rivaled mine and Mason’s was my relationship with work. I’ll be damned if I lose both this year.

My chest rises high, then falls. Is this allowed? Can we just be civil? “What’s going on, Mason?”

“Maynard Realty referred us for a major contract. Major. I didn’t even want to entertain the idea without talking to you first.”

Maynard Commercial Realty is our biggest client, not to mention the best-paying. But the research is devastatingly boring. Real estate is a lot of basic design and antiquated marketing strategies. It’s simple color schemes, basic fonts, polished, professional, pristine, and absolutely no creativity. I’m not sure if I want to take on their referral. It’s mind-numbing work.

“What kind of contract? And more importantly, with whom?”This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.

He pauses for seemingly dramatic effect. I’m not amused. I put my phone on speaker and place it face up on Dex’s coffee table. I nestle backward into the oversized navy sectional and watch Cherry dart around. The tank’s dimmers are on an automatic schedule, so she’s swimming in what she probably assumes is moonlight.

“Legacy Resorts.”

My mouth falls open. “As in Sandals’s biggest competitor?”

“That’s the one.”

I’m quite familiar with Legacy Resorts. I helped my dad and his new wife plan an anniversary trip with Legacy once. He’s computer illiterate and nearly paid an upcharge of thirty percent to book through a travel agent. I had to swoop in and save him from getting swindled. I spent quite a bit of time on that website. Their branding is spectacular.

“What do they need help with?”

“From what I understand so far, they need help relaunching some of their larger properties as kid friendly. Right now, they are doing quite well in the adult-only vacation space, but to stay competitive, they’re learning they have to be family-friendly, meaning—”

“They are going up against companies like Disney.”

“And if Disney doesn’t hand their ass to them, you’ve got Airbnb, VRBO, direct rentals—”

“All the more budget-friendly options that are making fancy all-inclusives obsolete for the middle class.” I nod along as I keep my eyes on Cherry, who seems to be slowing down.

“Exactly.” Mason clears his throat. “It’s more than just consulting. They want long-term strategists. They’re looking for a five-year commitment.”

“Five years?” My stomach twists. Normally, our contracts are on a six-month basis. We’re consultants. We do the research, develop a strategy, help implement the strategy, and then hand over the baton. Never did we plan to work with a specific client for five years. Plus, this isn’t just a five-year commitment to a client. It’s a five-year commitment to Mason. I haven’t even thought that far ahead…how in the hell can we keep working together in our current situation?

“I know, but, Aves, it’s a seven-figure contract. And there’s room for negotiation.”

“Seven figures?” I lean forward, smacking my elbows against my knees. “Are you kidding me?”

“One million, at minimum. But I think we could ask for more if you can come up with a killer presentation.”

“Holy shit, Mason.”

“I know,” he says through breathy huffs. “I was in shock. I’m not trying to put the cart before the horse. We still have to earn the contract, but we should be fucking proud we even get to have these conversations. I’m so proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” I grab the phone off the table, take it off speakerphone, and press it against my cheek. Mason’s voice becomes much clearer in my ear.

“You are who they’re impressed with. They specifically asked for you after Maynard Realty told them all you did for them. It’s you, Aves. I’ve said it from day one. I’m just the numbers guy. You’re the talent. It’s your way with people.”

Every wall I built instantly crumbles.

The tears fall as fast as they form and I have to mute the phone to hide my sudden outburst of hysteria. We should be hugging. We should be dancing in celebration. We should be so excited that we have the best sex of our lives.

We should not be having this conversation over the phone because we’re broken up.

We’re not spending our lives together.

Mason doesn’t want me.

I’m alone.

I. Was. Dumped.

“Aves? You still there?”

I sniffle hard and suck in a deep breath and hold it for a moment, collecting myself. Unmuting the phone, I say, “What do we need to do?”

“For now, preliminary research. But if you’re interested in moving forward, we’ll get in touch with their head of marketing. They’ll probably want an official proposal.”

“Okay,” I grunt, trying desperately to save face. “I can do that.”

“So…we’re…interested?”

I’m numb. I’m numb. I’m numb.

So why does it hurt so fucking much?

“Yeah, Mason, I’m interested. Set it up. I’ll start the industry research right away.”

“Okay, great. I’ll do that. I’ll email you all the details.”

The line is silent between us for a moment. It’s easy to talk business. It’s all we’ve been talking about for months now, apparently. How do we sign off? How do I say goodbye to the man who ripped my heart to pieces but apparently still has the power to put it back together?

“Thanks for calling—”

“Hey, Ave—”

We both try to speak at the same time.

“Go ahead,” I say.

He pauses for a moment more before he says, “I, um, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll take care of the rent here while you’re in Vegas.”

I clear my throat as it catches. “You don’t have to do that—”

“No, it’s only right. You’re not living here. You shouldn’t have to pay for it. As for the furniture and stuff—”

“Mason?” I interrupt.

“Yeah?”

I decide to acknowledge the hurt for the first time since my birthday dinner. It took almost two weeks, but I finally let my heart shatter. “I don’t want to talk about all that right now. I’m still hurting over everything. Can we deal with furniture after the summer?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, good night—”

“Avery,” he interrupts.

“What?” I ask in exasperation. Let me go, so I can melt.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this…but I’m hurting too. I don’t want you to think I don’t miss you every day.”

And that does it. I hang up the phone and become a puddle of hysteric, blubbering tears. Curling up into a ball on the couch and clenching my eyes shut, I see her face. Her shiny rich brunette waves, her tan skin, flawless smile, flat stomach, and the perfect curve of her ass.

The woman he wants.

The woman I’m not.