Page 17 of Yours Truly

“I thought I saw he was engaged not too long ago,” I say, recalling what Ev told me before Trace moved here, and something I briefly saw online. I usually don’t pay attention to tabloids, and this time was no different.

Ev dismissively waves it off. “Yeah, that… wasn’t what it looked like. Trust me, Trace was the victim there as much as Tara.”

I stuff my face with chips to hide my smile. He didn’t cheat and he needs tough love. I like both of those things, especially the tough love.

I want to be the one who does that.

I will be the one who does that.

Ivy Ellington is absolutely fucking good enough for reality star Trace Calhoun.

The urge to look him up is stronger than ever.

All of these thoughts I’m having about Trace have been so hard to suppress— tonight it feels like I no longer can.

It feels like I have to make him understand he’s a total asshole, but also make him understand I want him to be my total asshole.

That I like him despite the hole-ery.

He was hungover at work today. Every time he leaned over my shoulder, I smelled last night’s whiskey. And a trace of perfume.

I’m vibrating with jealousy on a daily basis.

But from his perspective, I’m just full of attitude.

Lying in bed, stomach sated from Dolly’s delicious dinner, I cave and snatch my phone from the nightstand. Typing his name into Google, I wait for the top result to be his Wikipedia page and for the next one to be the network page for his now off-air show.

I’ve never read his Wikipedia, but I know he has one.

And I know he was on a reality show.

But the way I know Trace is his uploaded art. I watched his feed. I didn’t get involved in any media version of him—I fell for his work.

And when I met him? I was sad to find out… he is my exact type.

Brooding and grouchy, sullen but not without purpose. Inked and immersed in art, a passion for consuming other art forms—my dream guy.

I’d deny ever saying that, though.

Results flood the page and my eyes burn from the sheer volume glaring back at me, bold blue colored links littering each listing.

TRACE CALHOUN’S BODY COUNT.

Sickness creeps up the back of my throat, burning my nose. My eyes mist over. I hate myself for having such a visceral reaction to this. Obviously he’s a womanizer.

And obviously I have no claim to him.

Still. The knife I keep in my boot? It feels like it’s burrowed in my stomach right now, and I hate what that means.

I really like Trace.

I drop my phone onto my stomach and drape my arm over my eyes. I sigh, because I haven’t really liked anyone like this… ever.

He will be a challenge, but he will be mine.

He has to be. I don’t waste my feelings.

SIX

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