Page 86 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Moving day is supposed to be exciting. A new chapter. A fresh start. Big Cancer energy.
Except for right now? I look like a marshmallow that got mugged in the bubble wrap aisle. My hair is hanging on by three bobby pins and a prayer, my shirt has a suspicious peanut butter stain that Sarah refuses to acknowledge, and my sports bra does nothing to hide the fact that I’m sweating in places that should not be sweating.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
Jacob—the ever-confident agent-slash-man who has never packed a box in his life—told me not to worry about anything. He has people for this kind of problem.
“Everything will be done for you, Olivia. Movers. Storage. White-glove treatment.”
Bless his optimistic, clearly delusional heart.
What he failed to calculate was what it’s like to move into the house of a professional athlete and his emotionally manipulative dog while being sleep-deprived, overstimulated, and hopped up on stale protein bars and a single lukewarm oat milk latte. Okay, I’m the one who’s overstimulated and all that jazz, not Sarah. Some days, though, it feels like we’re one person.
My phone dings.
I spin too fast, almost wipe out on a rogue tennis ball, and catch myself on a stack of half-labeled boxes.
Incoming Video Call: Lucian
Of fucking course.
I swipe to answer, already bracing myself for whatever smug nonsense he’s about to unleash.
He appears on-screen like a damn cologne commercial- shirtless, fresh out of the shower, probably. Hair damp. Jawline carved by the gods. He has a towel around his neck as if he’s just completed a light jog for the sake of looking hot.
“Hey, Doc,” he says, voice all gravel and grin.
I blink. “You called to check if I’ve finally abandoned your house and fled the state?”
“Tempting theory,” he says. “But no. I just had a feeling that you were spiraling emotionally in bubble wrap, and wow, would you look at that—I was right.”
I scowl. “Sarah has a box on her head.”
“I told you she’s theatrical.”
“What kind of thespian monster did you raise?” I huff, as this pup was literally made for Shakespearean plays.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not. I’m teetering on the brink of a complete meltdown, held together by the delicate illusion ofcontrol and the promise of a warm bath—in Lucian’s very fancy, very expensive bathtub.
Lucian tilts his head, that infuriating smirk twitching. “You look hot.”
“I look like I fought a packing warehouse.”
“And won,” he adds like that’s helpful.
I groan and yank the bubble wrap from my shoulder. “You’re not helping.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up a hand. “Breathe, Liv. I can see the eye twitch from here.”
“There is no eye twitch.”
He squints. “There it is. Right there. Under your left brow. Your ‘I’m about to snap and kill everyone in a three-block radius’ twitch.”
I inhale through my nose. “Lucian.”
