Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(46)

“Well, obviously we’d throw the condom away after—”

Her hand moves from my chest to my mouth. “Your talking privileges are suspended for the time being.” Her half smile fades a little. “It’s important to me, Ben. My pictures of Holm and all the rebuilding that’s been happening here could be the start of something exciting, and I don’t want to fuck it up. Now where can I fix my lipstick?”

Caleb points her to the bathroom—which has running water and a mirror, even if it’s still trashed from the storm—and then turns back to me with a thoughtful expression. “You think we should go with her to meet this reporter? Like emotional support?”

I’m already walking toward the bag I’ve got sitting on a makeshift table made out of sawhorses and plywood. I rummage for a clean shirt and wipe the sweat and blue lipstick off my face. I’m thinking of her anxious, hopeful expression just now, and also about the way she’s been all over this town taking pictures of both the tragic and the hopeful.

I wonder again why she isn’t already doing something she obviously loves so much.

“Yeah. I think we should.”





The reporter and her accompanying photographer are friendly and engaging. The reporter interviews Ireland for a good forty-five minutes as we stroll around the recovering but still visibly scarred Main Street while the photographer drifts away and back again to take pictures of various buildings and piles of construction materials. Caleb and I more or less hang back, and I’m sure we look like country boy versions of bodyguards as we trail behind our girl and cast looming six-foot-plus shadows along the street. The photographer seems a little nervous around us, but the reporter is just curious, peeking back over her shoulder and then back at Ireland, as if trying to guess if we’re related or something. It’s strangely irritating, but I force myself to remember that two is not the usual number of boyfriends to have. And also that Ireland wants to impress this person, so it won’t do her any good if I spend the rest of the afternoon scowling.

Ireland herself is adorably oblivious to our presence as we go, so used to us following her around like overgrown—and overprotective—puppies that she only spares us a glance every now and then. But each glance is elated and grateful and makes me fall in love with her all over again.

“Well,” the reporter says, hitting stop on her phone’s recording app and giving Ireland a warm smile, “I think that’s probably all I need. We’ll just get some photos of you and then head on out.”

Ireland freezes, and I can see the moment the panic hits her like a lightning bolt. She swallows, and there seems to be effort in keeping her voice light when she says, “Photos of me?”

“Of course!” the reporter chirps. “I think it will really drive home the point of the piece, which is all about the girl behind the camera, you know? The face behind the pictures that everyone’s been talking about.”

It’s astonishing how fast the well-kissed, confident, animated woman taking them around the town vanishes. In her place is a woman who looks terrified, tugging unconsciously at her hemline and rounding her shoulders ever so slightly, as if she’s trying to hunch into herself.

As if she’s trying to hide.

I don’t understand it, but every protective instinct in me roars to life, and they must be in Caleb too because he’s already taking a step forward, as if to put himself between Ireland and danger. Danger in this case being a chirpy, five-foot-four reporter.

I step forward too and put my hand against Ireland’s back.

“Do you want your…friends…in the picture?” the reporter asks, looking at us with avid interest.

“Boyfriends,” I correct automatically and then realize I’ve made a mistake. Ireland stiffens against my hand at the same time as the reporter’s eyes gleam with unmistakable delight. I can practically see her brain whirring with ways to work this juicy tidbit into the story.

Shit.

“Boyfriends?” she repeats and gives us the oh cool, uh-huh, uh-huh, I’m pretending to think this is totally normal nod and smile. “And you met after the storm?”

I can feel the deep breath Ireland takes. “Actually, no,” she answers, and she answers with a lifted chin and the confident, cheerful smile I’ve come to know and love. “We met before the tornado.” And she gives a charming and PG-rated account of how we all came to know each other and how the storm brought us together.

The reporter can’t hide her excitement. “This is such a cute story,” she gushes. “Can I make it part of the feature? I mean, with a picture of the three of you…”

I’m about to say no on Ireland’s behalf. It’s clear there’s something about being in a picture that makes her uncomfortable, and I won’t have anything making her unhappy, but she beats me to an answer.

“Yes,” she says, and while I can sense her bravery, I can also sense her pride. “You can put it in the article, with a picture of the three of us.”

And when Caleb and I arrange ourselves around her, our arms crossing behind her back to wrap around her waist, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Not just the holding of her between us, which isn’t new, but doing it publicly.

I give her a kiss on the head between flashes of the camera.

“I love you,” I tell her.