Page 31 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
My body is shaking. My throat burns with unshed tears.
I’m not crying over Hunter, I tell myself. Not really.
It’s in the headlines. The whispers. The old fear that maybe Patrick was right about me. Maybe I am too cold, too ambitious, too much of a control freak to be loved for real. Maybe all I’m good for is playing a part in someone else’s story.
I let myself cry for a few minutes, then I force myself to stop. Wiping my face roughly, I stand up. Fix my hair in the mirror. Reapply my lipstick with hands that only shake a little.
Even when I’m home, I’m performing. Protecting something fragile inside me, something I can’t afford to let anyone see.
I’m Juliet Monroe. I don’t fall apart. Not where anyone can see.
I walk to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine, pour exactly one glass, and leave it untouched on the counter. I stand there barefoot, staring at the clock on the microwave.
One night down. Months to go. And now the universe thinks I’m in love with the one man who knows exactly how to unravel me with a single offhand comment.
Great. This is going really fucking great.
I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes. Tomorrow there will be more photos, more comments, more people dissecting every outfit choice and facial expression. More opportunities for Hunter to remind me he sees me the same way everyone else does.
Just another girl chasing the spotlight, willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead.
The worst part is that I think I’m caring what he thinks of me. And that’s a complication I absolutely cannot afford.
Chapter8
Hunter
It’s halfway through November, the leaves have fallen off the trees, and the wet, chilly winter weather has set in. Personally, I love it. I can go for runs on some mornings in just a long-sleeve t-shirt and shorts without sweating my balls off. Most people miss the sun. I take a shitload of vitamin D and exult in the dark, rainy skies that last from the middle of October until the middle of May.
Juliet and I have only been living together for a few days and we’re already driving each other insane. I’m standing in the kitchen, mixing a protein shake in just a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, when she struts out of the bedroom hallway and points at me like I committed a war crime.
“Did you mess with the thermostat again?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I did.”
Her face gets hot, which is more attractive than it should be. “Hunter, I was freezing all night.”
“You can put on layers. I can’t make myself cooler.”
She’s wearing a short skirt, tank top, and heels at eight in the morning, which seems like overkill for hanging around the condo. But I’m not complaining about the view. If she were my fiancée for real, I’d find something better for her to do with that perfectly lipsticked mouth than harp on me for living the way I always have.
“And another thing,” she continued, crossing her arms. “Your hockey gear is everywhere. It smells like death.”
“It needs to air out.”
“There are protein shaker bottles piling up in the sink.”
“The maid comes twice a week.”
“And you walk around naked after every shower.”
I grin. “Problem?”
Her cheeks go pink. “Yes, it’s a problem. I have to live here too.”
“For four and a half more months. That’s what you’re being paid for.”
She goes rigid. “That is not what I’m being paid for. I’m being paid to fix your image, not to live in a disgusting trash pit. I want the maid to come twice as often.”
