Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista Read Online Free Page B

flames in response. Apparently I’m the lunatic at this moment.
    “Sure,” I say. I lead him up the staircase to my apartment. I push the door open and bring him inside, where he instantly stops and looks around.
    Deke slowly puts down his gear, and I follow his eyes around the room. I doubt he’s taking in the room in the way I am, like seeing the cute floral loveseat, the striped, oversized chair for two, and the fabulous bay window that overlooks Armitage Avenue.
    He’s viewing it like a professional videographer.
    “Okay,” Deke says, bending down and opening up his camera case. “Why don’t we start with you giving me a tour of the place? I’ll put a mic on you and follow you around to get some footage. Then I’ll have you sit down here in the living room while I ask you some general questions.”
    “Great,” I say, watching him unpack a bunch of stuff. “Hey, would you like a bottled water or something to drink?”
    Deke doesn’t even glance up at me. “No, thanks.”
    “Okay.” I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So I continue, curious about what his story is. “So, Deke, how many years have you been a videographer?”
    “Five years.”
    Silence fills the room. And it’s obvious he’s not going to elaborate any further than that.
    I furrow my brow as I watch him. Wow. He really is a man of few words. But maybe I haven’t hit on the right question. I’m about to ask him something else when he stands up, holding a small black box in his hand.
    “Okay, Avery, this is a transmitter for the wireless microphone,” Deke explains, moving over to me. “It sends the signal to the receiver on my camera. I’ll need for you to clip this to the back of your waistband for me.”
    “Sure,” I say, taking it from him. I clip the box to the back of my jeans, and instantly my low-rise pants droop from the weight of the transmitter puling on them. I quickly tug my jeans back up. But they instantly fall down again. Shit. If my jeans are tugged down any lower, I’ll be giving Deke a view of my underwear.
    Deke moves in front of me, oblivious to my panties dilemma. I casually hold up my jeans with one hand, keeping my hand tight on my hip in a pose designed to keep them there.
    His eyes study me again, this time flickering over my pale green, gauzy, spaghetti-strapped top. “Hmmm.”
    “Hmmm what?”
    “I’m trying to figure out where to clip the mic,” Deke says. “Normally I would tell you to clip it to your bra strap, but since you aren’t wear—”
    “I am too wearing a bra,” I interrupt. “It’s strapless.”
    Deke views me as if I were a creature from another planet. “What? What are you talking about?”
    “You just said I’m not wearing a bra. But I am. I always wear a bra. I’m not the type of woman to go anywhere bra-less, and certainly not on TV.”
    “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say ‘I can’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a bra with straps .’ And that’s all I’m saying.”
    “Oh,” I say, totally embarrassed. “Well, okay then.”
    He exhales loudly. “Listen, I need for you to take this mic and wire. The wire runs from the transmitter to this clip on microphone, and I need for you to hide the wire under your shirt. And then clip the mic—” He pauses again for a moment, studying my spaghetti-strapped top.
    “Yes?” I ask, staring up at him.
    “I guess clip it down near where your strap meets your shirt,” he says.
    I follow his gaze down toward my chest. Then I lift my eyes up to find him staring at me. And as my eyes meet his, my pulse twitches just a bit. After all, Deke is cute, despite the bad shirt. And there is something mysterious in his blue-green eyes, something that makes a tingle shoot down my spine whenever I look in them.
    “Okay,” Deke says simply, interrupting my thoughts. He bends down and picks up his camera. “So if you’ll go do that, we’ll be ready to go.”
    The moment is over. If there was