Georgina

"I don't understand," he says, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. "When did you post these?"

The candid shots I've posted to Richard's Instagram since yesterday — him stolid and suited in front of the dark, rainy window; him bent over his laptop, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, expression bare and stern and surprisingly vulnerable; and one of him almost, almost visibly anxious, hand in his dark curls, eyes narrowed on a video call just out of focus — have absolutely blown up.

"You have six hundred new followers," I say, showing him and ignoring the question. Sea water still drips from his hair and mine, and we're huddled (far, far too close) under the sailboat awning, wind whipping over the little vessel as the assistant pilot steers us back toward Villa Bijou.

"And far fewer hate comments than usual. And a dozen unsolicited nudes from variously attractive models." This last bit I say with humor, but feel the barest pinch of something like embarrassment, or worse — envy.

"This is the kin