Page 29 of Thanking Her Brother's Best Friends

But the idea of not doing anything was scarier. I wondered how people could just have an off-day of lounging around, visiting the spa, or sitting for hours on end without worrying about falling behind.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd even had a facial or a mani-pedi without thinking that shit took way too much time.

To compensate, I told Chloe I'd do it at home—slap a face pack on and work while it dried. Chloe's response involved a jet of profanities and something about cucumbers. I think she wanted to stress that if I could, I'd just cut up cucumbers and put them on my face while cooking to save time.

A.K.A. avoid self-care.

It wasn't that I didn't take care of myself. I loved long showers. I loved appearing clean, collected, and precise. My outfits were always tailored to the bigger reasons behind wearing them.

When I'd head to a set, it was a power suit or a pencil skirt with a pastel shirt. For a night out, a cocktail dress. But I chose to look at all of it as a way to weaponize myself, not to feel good. Maybe that needed to change.

The bigger reason this was bothering me right now was that I'd called Aiden over because I wanted to give him a chance.

I already knew the possibility of something long-term here was as slim as a lactose-intolerant person not choosing harm by drinking a thick, delicious mango lassi at an Indian restaurant.

Maybe that lactose intolerant someone was me, calling Chloe up and crying about how unfair life was at one in the morning because I was severely dehydrated from all the bathroom visits that followed one glass of dairy. I'd do it again, though.

Now, coming back to the topic of Aiden. We were an hour away from closing the pastry shop—and Chloe looked like she had no intention of leaving until I gave her the truth.

"You have to tell me," she insisted, a wicked little smile on her lips. "Are you calling him over just because, orbecausebecause?"

I wanted to whack her with the spatula in my hand. But then again, she'd probably dodge like a bloody Olympian and cover me in flour.

"I'm calling him over because I want to see where it goes."

"Girl, you know neither of you is lookin' for something serious. And that's fine—I think it's high time you just have some fun, no strings attached. But I wanna know, what prompted you? Because nothing Selene does is by chance, right?"

I cast a long, withering look at her. "What if it is? What if this is the reason, Chlo? I—okay, look. Remember the producer ofChefTalk?"

Chloe wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I ain't forgetting him all that easily. What about him?"

Caleb Mercer. I personally thought another name suited him better—Asshole Mega-Asshole. He was a hotshot producer who worked exclusively producing films and documentaries on self-made chefs and workers in the food industry.

Back when I was catapulting to fame—there, but not quite—he wanted to sign a contract with me. An exclusive documentary on the life of Selene Baker, a rising prodigy from a forgotten part of South Boston.

On the face of it, things sounded interesting enough. I'd be talking about my background, and part of the documentary would show the Boston I grew up in. This involved drug trafficking, the way we lived in rowhouses, and corruption.

And then, it would show how I went on to make waves in Paris and other parts of Europe and Asia before returning to my roots.

When I went to meet him, I was likely the most excited twenty-five-year-old in the world. This could have been huge.

But in his office, sitting on that stupid plush chair and smoking his ridiculously fat cigar, he'd taken a look at me and said, "Look, Selene, you're pretty, but not sexy. We need you to lose some weight before you can do the documentary. Or, we could hire someone to play your part. But if you do it, drop those pounds, honey. The audience will lap you up."

The joke was on him because the world lapped me up anyway, plus-size, with freckles and unconventional hair and a tongue that could drip acid sometimes. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Even if I wasn't high on self-care, I would not stand for someone bringing me down or telling me a certain way of existing was better based on pure sex appeal.

"You did the right thing by throwing the contract in his big, stupid face, Selene. I would have probably torn it to pieces and made him eat it."

"You would. I think you would have gone a step ahead and also beaten him with the file before tearing it and feeding it to him."

Chloe laughed. "Yeah. So, is this why you're taking a chance on Aiden? Because you don't want to judge him before you... test him?" She winked at the end, playing on "test" as if it was the same as "taste".

I replied with an amused snort. "That's about it. And you're right about the rest too. Last I spoke with him, he made it pretty clear that he's not looking for anything serious. Neither am I. In fact, the only serious relationship I need or want right now is with Oliver."

That was a gross mistake, and Chloe made a dramatic gesture and sound as if someone had thrown a sack of rice at her. "Ma'am," she replied, rolling her eyes for added effect, "I am so shocked, so hurt—"

"And you," I replied hastily, knowing I was about to get it. "Of course, you!"

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