And now? Now Zach Westbrook is the one basically sitting by his phone, waiting for me.
And God help me... it feels good.
I'm halfway through typing out another excuse —Sorry, can't, busy with rehearsal— when I open my door... and nearly jump out of my own skin.
"Oh good God!" My hand flies to my chest as my heart launches into overdrive.
Because there he is.
Zach, leaning against the wall across from my door, one ankle casually crossed over the other, two Starbucks venti iced lattes balanced in his big hands, that signature smirk curved across his annoyingly perfect mouth.
"Good morning, beautiful," he drawls, winking like the infuriating menace he is.
I blink at him, still trying to calm my racing heart. "You scared the hell out of me!"
"Technically," he says, voice dropping into something way too amused, "the proper response would be 'good morning, handsome.'"
His smirk widens. "But honestly? I think I like your surprise reaction better. Really does things for my ego."
I inhale deeply, then exhale, trying to will my pulse back to a normal rhythm. "What are you doing here, Zach?"
He pushes off the wall, that slow, lopsided grin of his stretching slow, tugging at one corner first before it spreads fully — the kind of grin that makes it impossible not to notice the little dimple on his left cheek.
"Well, since you keep turning me down over text, I figured I'd up my game," he says, stepping closer. "Harder to say no in person, right?"
He extends one of the cups toward me, wiggling his brows. "Latte?"
I just... stare.
At the mountain of whipped cream, the caramel drizzle catching the light like it's calling my name. My mouth actually waters.
God, it's been forever since I let myself have one of these.
Zach catches my silence and grins like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Almond milk," he recites, ticking each off like a checklist. "Three pumps of caramel syrup. Two shots of espresso. Exactly two packets of sugar. Whipped cream with cinnamon drizzle—extra whipped cream, because I know that's your favorite part."
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching with the urge to snatch the cup and chug it right there in the hallway. My body's practically humming like an addict in withdrawal, just staring at that sweet, creamy perfection.
But I don't move.
"Did I get it wrong? I was sure I remembered how you liked it."
A crease forms between his brows.
"No," I say quickly. "You remembered it perfectly." My gaze drops back to the cup, and my stomach does an awful little twist. "It's just... I don't drink that anymore."
"What? Since when?"
"Since I realized how fat I was." I let out a quick, almost flippant laugh and shrug, like it's no big deal. "Looked in the mirror one day, hated what I saw, and decided it was time to do something about it. Stopped shoving sugar down my throat, started counting calories, and started working out."
I make it sound easy. Like one day I just flipped a switch and became the girl who lives on kale and morning runs.
But the truth? It was brutal.
Ugly, soul-crushing brutal.
I thought hiring a fitness coach would fix it all — she'd hand me a plan, I'd follow it, and boom, problem solved.
