Twenty-freaking-five.

I looked at him over the top of the tablet and felt my little heart break just a bit. “Do you know how many people like your fan page?”

He shrugged.

I looked it up.

The Reiner Kulti Official Fan Page had one hundred and twenty-five million likes.

And ‘Michel Reiner’ had twenty-five.

Something watery pooled in my throat as I handed him back his tablet. “I don’t get on there much but you could add me as a friend if you wanted to,” I offered in a wobbly voice.

“What an honor,” the bratwurst said, but he said it with a small smile so I knew he didn’t mean it like an asshole.

I still reached under the cover and pulled his leg hair. At least I hoped it was his leg hair.

Whatever it was, he let out a grunt-squeak noise of surprise as he jerked away, a big smile on his face that seemed to fit into skin that wasn’t accustomed to forming those types of facial expressions. “Do it again Sal, and you’ll get it right back.”

I made sure he was watching when I crossed my eyes at his threat. “I don’t have hair on my legs, so good luck with that.” I eyed the small screen again. “Who else are you friends with on there?”

“Some old teammates, my mother, my manager and publicist.” He tapped my name into the search and hit the ‘add’ button once my page came up. “You.”

My phone beeped a second later, and I saw the alert of a pending friend request. I accepted it and set my phone back down on the dresser before taking the seat I’d left next to the German.

The German who was already busy browsing my profile.

“Nosey much?” I asked.

He grunted, clicking on my main album and scrolling down. They were mainly all pictures that friends or family members had posted and linked me to. Birthdays, games, get-togethers, more games… it was a timeline of the last eight years of my life through other people’s eyes. Kulti didn’t say anything as he looked through them, until he suddenly stopped scrolling.

“Who is this?” he asked.

He didn’t need to point at the picture for me to know who he was referring to, and honestly, I was a little surprised Adam still had pictures of us up. We hadn’t been together in five years, and he’d dated more than a few girls since then.

But there we were on the screen.

I was in my early twenties, him in his late twenties and me on his lap, with his arm around my waist. My ex-boyfriend of four years was blond, built like an Abercrombie model, really cute and just as nice as he’d been attractive.

“That’s really old. It’s my ex-boyfriend,” I explained to the German.

The man who rarely used words didn’t change his tactic, but he slowly started looking through more pictures with dozens more of Adam and I popping up along the timeline. It made me feel a little sad that I hadn’t tried harder to work things out with him. We’d always gotten along really well, and he’d been the exact person I needed and wanted back then.

“How long were you together?” he asked once we’d scrolled three years further back.

“Four years. We met my second year in college.”

“He looks like an idiot.”

It took me a moment to comprehend what came out of his mouth, but it made me laugh once it finally took hold. I nudged him with my elbow. “You’re rude. He wasn’t an idiot. He was really nice.”

Those green-brown eyes slid over to me. He didn’t look amused. In fact his jaw was tight, and he looked a little pissed off. “You’re defending him?” He sounded like he couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah. He was really nice. He’s the only man I’ve ever really dated, Rey. We’d probably still be together if I would have wanted to have kids right after college.”