TweetyGram

1 - #HelloTweetyGram

"You're supposed to write about what?" Bree stopped mincing the ginger and flicked her eyes to me.

"TweetyGram," I repeated, my voice as lifeless as a zombie's.

"As in that photo-sharing social media app TweetyGram?"

"Yep."

"And if the article you write is good enough—"

"And unique enough."

"Then you'll get hired as a full-time staff writer?"

Everyone who had met my sister agreed on one thing: she had a terrific poker face. Bree's expression was often so unreadable she should've been a professional poker player instead of working at a fast-food restaurant.

But right now, two vertical lines creased her smooth forehead, her delicate eyebrows shot up high, and although her mouth was pulled in a tight line, her eyes screamed, 'You're screwed.'

"I know! There's a reason I choose to write about crime. I'm not hip enough to be a lifestyle journalist, for crying out loud." I blew out a breath, the puff lifting the loose strands of copper-red hair that had slipped from my ponytail across my face.

When I first received the news that I'd been hired as a paid graduate intern at the L.A. Gazette—one of the most prestigious newspaper companies in Los Angeles—I was ecstatic. Well, ecstatic was an understatement. I squealed so loud that my neighbors called the cops because they thought someone had just been murdered. In my defense, I thought it was the golden ticket to my dream job.

Little did I know, my future depended on an article about a social media app for narcissists.

"I'm screwed." I shook my head and sighed. "I'm totally screwed."

"Calm down, Linds," Bree replied, her voice soothing. "I'm sure you'll find something interesting to write about."

"Like what? How to get one million followers in one night? Ten influencers you should follow before you die? Murder on TweetyGram?" The last idea sent a rush of excitement through my veins. "Ooh. I should probably go research about—"

A knock on the balcony's door interrupted me.

"Holy mother of—" I jumped in my seat at the sight of a half-naked man standing on my balcony.

Yes, there was a half-naked man—no, no—a three-quarters-naked man on my balcony, grinning and waving at my sister and me.

I blinked in disbelief. "Am I hallucinating or—"

"Oh, he's there alright," Bree answered.

Jake Cafferty, my childhood friend, stood on my balcony with only a towel preventing him from being a full-on pervert. Rivulets of water trickled down his superhero-grade abs—which looked even more defined thanks to the soft evening light and the subtle shadows carving across his body; the left side of his chiseled jaw was clean-shaven while the other was lathered with shaving foam; and his short, golden-blond hair was coated with a light froth of shampoo.

It had been two weeks since Jake first showed up on my balcony. And no, he wasn't naked then. He was wearing all black, treading along the narrow ledge that connected his balcony to mine in the middle of the night, just like a burglar. He was lucky I recognized his annoyingly handsome face or else I would've called the cops and had him arrested.

A mischievous idea sneaked its way into my mind, and I reached for my phone. "I'm calling the cops."

Bree choked back a laugh. "He's your friend, Linds."

"Correction," I said, holding up a finger. "He was my friend."

My friendship with Jake had begun when our respective parents brought us to the lousiest gala I'd ever attended. I was five, and he was seven. There was a time when I couldn't wait to email him about how I made the school's mean girl cry. A time when he was bedridden and didn't have any friends but me and his grandma's cats. A time when the Internet was running at a snail's pace.