Page 41 of Relationship Goals

A splendid idea. Thebestidea.

Now, after Pilates was a torturous memory of leg circles and endless bicycle-crunch variations, the only thing I want is to lie under a heating pad and wish for the sweet release of death. The worst part is, I feel good mentally…but I know I’ll be even sorer tomorrow.

Darren’s sent me a flurry of messages and GIFs, along with doctored photos of me and Luke kissing from all different angles. I make the one where Darren’s photoshopped himself into the image his new contact pic and settle on sending him as many heart emojis as my texts will allow.

My arm aches as I hold the phone, and I scowl. Absolutely despicable how something so torturous makes me feel better. Foul.

Ah, the conundrum of exercise.

I settle for soothing myself with a long shower at the hottest temperature my water heater can produce, bemoaning my choice of clearly sadistic Pilates instructors as I wince and try to soap up every sweat-covered bit of my body.

It proves harder than it should.

My phone rings on the counter while I’m in the shower, and I’mnot foolhardy enough to think I can manage to reach it in time at the snail’s pace I’m currently failing to muster.

It’s got to be Jean, anyway. She’s the only one who calls me regularly—even my mom and dad know my habits well enough to know I prefer either texting or having a set time to talk to them.

I don’t have to wonder why she’s calling me, either.

“Pa-pa, paparazzi,” I sing into the shower mist, then regret using my diaphragm for my killer Gaga impression as my abs silently scream in distress.

The photos of Luke and I were all over the tabloid sites this morning. Not that I looked—nope, my Pilates instructor decided to tell me about it at length, and then I think she took it personally when I was too out of breath to comment more on whether the LA Wolf was any good at kissing.

Probably not, but it sure as shit felt personal to my abs.

When I finally manage to turn off the water, feeling slightly more human, I have two missed calls, both from Jean, and one voicemail.

I stare at the phone, then at my bedraggled expression in the mirror.

“It’s gonna be a good day,” I sing, wiping my palm across the glass. An action that reveals dark circles under my eyes and a rough-looking mouth.

Well, that simply will not do.

Sure, I barely got any sleep because I was tossing and turning all night.

But it wasn’t from nightmares or stress, for once—it was because I was excited.

Not in my usual chaotic hyperactive ADHD way, either, but truly justexcitedfor the future. I snagged the role I wanted, Michelle’s going to give me a great sense of what, exactly, a woman in the International Football Federation deals with on the daily, and I can just feelall the things I’ve been working toward for so long start to come within my reach.

Heat blossoms on my cheeks as I dig through my stash of eye and lip patches, because that’s not the only reason I couldn’t sleep.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Luke Wolfe, either.

The way he held my face, his hand around my throat, that gentle pressure…even now, it’s like I can feel his fingers there. His mouth against mine, the intense focus of his gaze and attention.

I haven’t felt that real, that alive, in a long time.

Which probably means it’s time to set up an emergency therapy sesh, because being in the public eye is a desperately bizarre experience…or time to admit that I simply like Luke. Maybe he’s the piece I’ve been missing for a long time.

Which is stupid.

“Stupid,” I tell my reflection, shaking a finger at myself before peeling open the pricey collagen patches my studio-appointed dermatologist gave me. Goopy, they slide out of the packaging, and I plop them under my eyes, where, thanks to some kind of snail mucin and collagen magic, they stick.

A medical marvel.

Snails. Who would’ve guessed?

I hiss out a breath, a memory punching me in the gut. Olivia, my formerBlood Sirenscostar, also swore by the snails. Back when we were friends, before I murdered my reputation and, according to her, our relationship, Olivia and I would trade beauty secrets.

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