Page 160 of The Fake Out Flex

That draws the tiniest smile out of Fraser. "Glad you're finally using his correct name."

I carry on. "After exhausting all my options, I was left with just two. As you know, I caught up with Mom and asked her to set up a meeting with her Washington contact."

"Even though that's not something you want to do?"

I lift a shoulder. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. I have to be realistic. I'm good as gone from the network. I need to have a plan B."

"That being a story about me?"

The words stall in my throat, but I push them out. "Yes. I was still convinced you wouldn't go for it, but I thought if I pitched you an idea that allowed you, and your family, to tell your side of the story your way, you might at least consider it."

"And what if, after considering it, I still said no?"

"Like I said, I fully expected that. I wasn't counting on this story ever happening. I just wanted to bring the idea to you and have that conversation. It wouldn't have changed anything if you'd said no. Honestly."

He breathes out through his nose.

"I'm sorry I kept this from you. That was wrong of me. I should have mentioned it earlier, you would have made some joke about me being out of my mind, and that would have been the first and last time the topic was discussed. Instead, I did something that made it look like I was being deceitful or underhanded when I really, truly wasn't. I apologize. I own what I did because I can see that's exactly how it looks."

He exhales again. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. I've had the worst night. Seeing those photos and newspaper clippings on your desk triggered my two biggest vulnerabilities—my distrust of the media, and my desire to protect my family. I got hit with a double whammy of pain."

"I feel so awful about that."

He tunnels his fingers through his hair. "I tossed and turned all night, running it over in my head. I tried to be logical about it, knowing deep down that you would never use me for a story. I kept trying to come up with some way of explaining it. But unfortunately, the logical part of my brain got hijacked by insomnia, late-night home shopping network ads—side note, you and everyone I know will soon be receiving the latest state-of-the-art food dehydrator—and…fear."

"Fear? Fear of what?"

"Of losing this thing that we have." He sets his eyes on me. "This is everything I've ever wanted in a relationship. I don't mean to sound cruel or unkind, but I've never had anything like this with any of my previous girlfriends. With them, I was never able to truly open up and be myself. It felt like…like there was something there, a barrier, that prevented me from accessing those parts of myself. I felt broken, like something was wrong with me. Which wasn't fair to them."

"Wasn't fair to you, either," I gently point out. "And you're not broken, Fraser." When he makes a sound like he doesn't believe me, I say, "You're not. I know you. Yes, you're guarded, and you really need to get to know someone well before you feel safe enough to open up to them, but that's just who you are. Just like being kind and thoughtful and a great listener are also things that make you who you are. I've spent a lot of time with you, so I speak from experience. I'm not just saying it. You are not broken."

"Yeah. Maybe…but with you, Evie, without effort, without trying, it just happens. I can be myself. Fully myself. It started in high school, and it's been the same these past few months."

"I feel the exact same way. My previous boyfriends never really understood me, so I found myself changing to fit into who I thought they wanted me to be."

"I don't want you to change anything about yourself, Evie. I love everything about you. Even the things you think I might not."

I've always wanted to be with a guy who I could be myself with. Someone who loved all of me, and I didn't have to hide or change any part of myself to make him feel more comfortable with me.

Fraser is that guy.

I feel it and know it with every part of me, from the tips of my fingers to the depths of my bones.

He thinks I'm beautiful when I'm a mess.

He loves it when I eat like a horse.

He doesn't mind my messiness.

Or my detailed notes about his hockey performance.

Or my rambling and quirky sense of humor.

He gets me.

He loves me.

All of me.

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