Page 37 of Fierce Love
“Ava would too—though she didn’t get the martyr gene.” She grins over at me. “Despite their upbringing, they’re all pretty close now, I think. The kids and the parents.”
“Nate—Nathaniel and his mom are close?” When we dated, I got the impression that I was part of the wedge between them, so maybe it makes sense that after I was gone, they returned to normal—whatever that was.
“The siblings are taking her to her treatment appointments, and they’ve all rallied around her.” She presses the button for another drink and then angles her body on the lounger to get a better look at me. “Is it weird being around Nathaniel now? Did Celia know you two dated?”
“She knew,” I say, trying to make the words sound normal instead of strained. “Went about as well as you can imagine.” I close my eyes to the sun and rest my head back on the lounger, pretending nonchalance. “And no, being around him now isn’t weird.” An absolutely massive lie. I’ve pushed what happened in the steam room to the back of my mind, but I know later tonight, after Kin is asleep, when I’m alone, I’ll replay that scene with a very different outcome. I can’t even remember the last time I was that turned on by so little.
Just then, as though to mock me, Nate and Brent wander out of the double doors. Every single muscle in Brent’s body seems to pop, as though someone carved them out. Nate, by comparison, seems softer. Athletic and fit, and I find I’m genuinely attracted to that softness more. Brent’s level of fitness doesn’t seem real, whereas I can imagine myself leaning into Nate, resting my head against his chest, sliding my hand along his flat stomach, placing open-mouthed kisses in the hollow of his neck, which used to make goosebumps rise across his flesh… and then I realize my gaze is trailing over him as though he’s a snack I’d like to devour, and I avoid meeting his eyes before lying back on the lounger again. I really hope he wasn’t watching me the way I was watching him.
“Not weird at all,” Posey murmurs beside me. “We’ll have to get into hownot weirdit is later.” Her tone is teasing, as though I’ve just opened the story of Nate and me, placed it in her hands, and asked her to read every page.
Chapter Eighteen
Hollyn
Just like when we were kids and it took him a week before he returned to The Drunk Racoon, Nate’s behavior after the spa is the opposite of what he claimed. And it confuses the heck out of me.
In the two weeks we’ve spent leading up to filming our first episode, Nate has been the consummate professional. He’s so firmly cruising between the boss-employee lines that I’ve almost convinced myself I dreamt the way he veered so far off course in the spa. On the eve of filming, I’m sure I’ve completely misread Nate’s intentions.
Which should make me happy, but his behavior has merely set me on edge, made me irritable with Kinsley, unable to completely focus on set, and I need to focus.
Once filming starts, we’ll be zigzagging all over the place. We begin a project, work on the design plans for another, and film the result of a third. At any time, there will be multiplepeople, multiple spaces, to consider. Not only are Posey and I in charge of creating the design, but we’re overseeing the implementation. I’ve redone rooms in people’s houses before—even several rooms or spaces—but I’ve never remade a house from top to bottom. With the way the show works, if my designs are chosen over Posey’s on a consistent basis or vice versa, we could end up extremely busy or feeling very inadequate, maybe even questioning our skills. The closer we get to the start, the more I’m second guessing my decision to stay here and take part in the TV show. At least in New York, I knew what to expect.
Twyla has given me one last outfit to try on for this week’s wardrobe, and I’ve just taken it into the changing room, which is located inside the warehouse where everything is being stored for production. Getting ready to film has been a weird mix of bare bones and extravagance, but I have no idea if that’s normal.
I’m wiggling into the skirt when my phone goes off. The message is from Kin saying that Shannon is taking her to the Youth Adventure Race Club so she can try it out. Turns out, after all these years of complaining she couldn’t do dance lessons, she doesn’t like dance anyway. Not jazz or tap or contemporary or ballet or hip-hop—she’s tried them all the last couple of weeks. One class after another. Each one a firm “no.”
I guess that’s one less guilt trip I’ll need to suffer when we go back to New York.
“Everything okay?” Twyla asks. She’s come to interpret my silence from the other side of the changeroom door as dislike, which is often true. When I like some piece of an outfit, can see that it flatters the figure I’ve developed, I can’t help oohing and aahing over it. But when an outfit makes me stare at myself in the mirror, wishing I was at least fifty pounds lighter, I barely say a thing.
“Just a text from my sister,” I say, replying to Kin with an okay and zipping myself into the leather skirt, feeling my whole bodysuctioned in with the fabric. I don’t even have to look in the mirror to know the silhouette will present my curves in a way that’s inaccurate. “I don’t know,” I say, coming out of the room, focused on the skirt, running my hands over my hips, “I think people will call me a liar in this outfit.”
“I think they’ll call you stunning,” a deep voice that is not Twyla’s says.
I jerk my gaze up, and Nate is the only one there. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I search the room for Twyla.
“She went to the bathroom,” he says. “Why would anyone call you a liar in that outfit?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears and looking over his shoulder for Twyla. Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert to have him so close and for us to be alone. In the last two weeks, if he’s been close, other people have been around. Whether by luck or design, we haven’t had a chance to be alone. There’s always someone somewhere with an opinion or a question about something that demands his input, and the lack of one-to-one time has been frustrating and a relief, depending on the day. Being around Nate takes some mental fortitude, and it’s exhausting to be constantly braced for an impact that never happens.
“Seriously,” he says, stepping close enough that I catch a whiff of cedar and fresh air—scents that take me back to another time. Was he at the campground today? “I’m not going to letanyonebe mean to you.”
That causes a smile to rise in me, and I stare up at him, my lips quirked. “Oh yeah? Nate, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the internet is full of mean people, and I’m going to be on a TV show. I’m practically asking for people to tear me down.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, his brow furrowed. “No one asks to be torn down.”
“There are probably a lot of reality TV stars who’d wonder if they did ask given their experience and the reaction from the public. Have you ever read the comments on some of those articles and social media posts and just… everywhere? Because I have. All my favorite reality stars have been trashed. I’m preparing myself.”
“This show is about houses and renovations and decorating. It’s not about whether a skirt makes you look like a fucking Greek goddess.” His voice has grown husky. “And it does, by the way, make you look like a goddess.”
Heat explodes across my cheeks, and I give my head a little shake. “False advertising.”
“I don’t see anything false.” His knuckles skim my cheekbone. “Why does it feel false to you?”
Because you said you were coming after me and you haven’t done a single thingsince. I shouldn’t want him to. Having him back in my life is already complicated, and throwing that door wide-open would be a mistake. The choices I made are likely unforgiveable to him. I’d be going back on promises I made.
Still, even though it’s not smart, a part of me has wondered whether he changed his mind because not only are we different people on the inside, but I’m not thin and young anymore. The insecurities that I can keep at bay in New York are starting to poke holes in my confidence. The Bellerive stage with Nate and the show is big enough, but the fact that Interflix appears to be seriously interested in picking up the series off the back of the Prince Brice and Maren Tucker adventure race saga only increases the stakes. Part of me worries I won’t be able to slip on the mask of cool confidence that I perfected in New York when it matters in Bellerive—with him or the show.
