“But he won’t be your last.” Mom squeezes my shoulder. “He doesn’t deserve that privilege.”
We share a smile in the mirror.
“So we’re gonna take this one step at a time, baby. Okay? Today, we’re focusing on the makeov—I mean, rebranding. Tonight, you’re gonna go on that date. You won’t put any pressure on yourself. You’re just gonna test the waters. And then, we’ll decide where to go from there.”
This new look is already starting to grow on me. Maybe I need to start coming in more often, I decide, as I smile at my reflection. Your husband ditching you for a younger, thinner woman leaves you confused and with a feeling in your gut that never subsides. It makes those nagging voices louder, until you can’t look in any mirrors without feeling nauseous.
But the way Jude looks at me these days…He makes me feel desirable.
It also makes me want. Want to be touched. Kissed. Held…Fucked.
I make a valiant effort to remind myself that falling into bed with my roommate isn’t a good plan. I’ll admit that our long-held animosity has been fading lately but we just have too much history there. Things are already tense enough between us without throwing sex into the mix.
“Dating is so…weird,” I grumble. “Awkward. And there’s all kinds of swampy creatures out there in the dating pool.”
Mom sighs wearily. “Well, if you were willing to bump pretties with your new roommate, you wouldn’t have to subject yourself to the dating pool. Baby girl, you need a real man in your life.” Now, she’s leaning into the mirror, re-applying her candy pink lipstick. She waggles her perfectly-shaped brows at me. “A man like Jude, perhaps?”
“Mom!”
“Let me see those pictures of him again.” When I resist, she nudges me in the shoulder.
Fighting my smile, I hand her my phone, open to the Google image search of Jude Kingston I showed her earlier. It’s a long, eye-catching portfolio of pictures. Mom oohs and aahs and acts a fool as she goes through them.
“I didn’t know that abs like that even existed,” my mother comments. “I’m coming over to your house to introduce myself. I think I need to see those in person. And maybe touch them.”
I glare at her.
“What?” she says innocently. “To make sure they’re not photoshopped or ab implants. We don’t need any of that false advertising stuff. Remember, we’re businesswomen, Iris. We have to do our due diligence.”
I snatch the phone back from her and scroll through the page. The shirtless images send a shot of warmth straight to my core. I can’t deny that this man is nothing short of beautiful.
But as I scroll further, I’m reminded of what type of life that beauty attracts. There’s photo after photo of Jude at red carpet events, fundraisers, and late-night dates. Each one features a different, picture-perfect model on his side. These women boast thin frames, silky hair, and flawless skin.
I wasn’t built for that world. I could never in my wildest dreams compete with the women who attract a guy like Jude Kingston. I won’t deny my interest in having a man in my bed, in my life. But that man most certainly will not be a professional football player.
I need a clean slate. With a nice, ‘regular’ guy. Like Terry, the man I’ll be meeting with for dinner tonight.
Mom hits my hair with one last shot of hair spray. Then, she coaxes me out of my chair. “Go on, baby. Go grab that cute dress that’s hanging in the garment bag in the back. Put it on.”
“Fine.” I rise from the styling chair. I take hesitant steps toward the back room.
“Remember—this is not a makeover. It’s a re-branding. You’ve rebranded your shit.” She taps my butt encouragingly. “Now, go get ready to sell that sexy ass.”
18
Jude
I came home to an empty house today after my session with my massage therapist, and I can’t help but wonder where my roommate is.
I’m looking forward to our next one-on-one workout session. The house feels strange without her because Iris Merlini is almost always home, fingers glued to her computer.
But today? No sign of the tempting blonde.
Things have definitely thawed between us since my mom caught us in a compromising position on the living room floor the other day. It’s like Iris feels guilty or something. I don’t like that. She did nothing to be ashamed of. I crave her presence. I enjoy having her around, even if it’s just knowing she’s in the other room.
Walker shows up in the evening, six pack in hand. I’m pretty sure Ma sent him over to meet his socializing quota for the week. Regardless, I find myself grateful for the company.
I’m antsy and restless sitting on the couch, so I make myself some tea and lead my brother out to the backyard, needing some fresh air.
My skin is crawling. Laying around all day is not in my DNA. For more than a decade, I’ve been putting in two-a-days and spending hours in the gym, building endurance and strength.
Now, after a few weeks of rest, I can already see the difference in my muscle tone. I hate it.
The green expansive yard extends at least half the length of a football field and would be perfect for a pickup game. “Let’s throw a ball around,” I suggest to my brother. My fingers itch to grip that smooth, dimpled pigskin. “I’m sure I have one in my room.” I head off in that direction.
Walker stops me. “Nah, man. Let’s just sit out here. I don’t think you should be putting that much pressure on your knee.” He cracks open a beer and watches me warily.
Frustrated, I mope, walking around for a few yards to get my blood flowing, before eventually dropping into a cushioned patio chair next to my brother.
