Three pairs of jeans—one with a hole in the knee I've been meaning to patch. Five shirts that have seen better days. Two sweaters that are starting to pill. Underwear getting threadbare because buying new bras is expensive and I kept putting it off. One pair of boots with salt stains that won't come out. One pair of sneakers with worn soles. A winter coat that doesn't quitekeep out the Canadian cold because it's three sizes too big—a hand-me-down from someone at my old pack.
That's enough, right? People survive on less.
Nash shakes his head firmly.
"No. You want to go full throttle with this career stuff, yes? Take your social media seriously?"
The question catches me off guard. Makes me pause and really think about what I want instead of just surviving day to day.
I've secretly wished to take social media seriously for years now.
Create a real career out of it instead of just posting sporadically between bar shifts when I have energy and decent lighting. So many influencers I watch have catapulted to fame and fortune—turned their passion into six-figure incomes, got brand deals with major companies, traveled the world creating content, built entire businesses from their platforms.
I've always wanted that for myself.
The freedom to work when I want, create what I want, be my own boss. The creativity of styling outfits and setting up aesthetically pleasing shots and editing videos until they're perfect. The ability to make money doing something I genuinely love instead of serving drinks to drunk people who sometimes grab my ass and think a bigger tip makes it okay.
But I was stuck in an environment that prevented that dream from becoming reality.
Kael and his pack dismissed social media as a waste of time. Called it childish and frivolous. Said real adults have real jobs, not internet personas. Refused to let me spend money on equipment like a decent camera or ring light or tripod. Refused to let me buy props or decent clothes for content creation. Mocked me relentlessly when I tried to film things at home—making faces in the background of my shots, turning off lightswhen I was trying to get good footage, laughing at my attempts to be professional.
Eventually I stopped trying around them.
Only filmed in secret when they were gone, feeling guilty and stupid the entire time for pursuing something they deemed worthless.
But now they're not around to taint anything. This could be my chance.
"I do," I say, meeting his eyes. "I want to take it seriously."
He nods once, satisfied.
"Then while we do this fake dating thing, we'll do everything in our power to help you do exactly that. Get you set up properly. Equipment, clothes, whatever you need."
My throat gets tight.
"Nash—"
"Less worrying," he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. "More focusing on your game plan. Deal?"
I smile—can't help it.
This man I barely know is offering to help me chase dreams that people who supposedly cared about me dismissed as worthless.
"Deal."
He closes the truck door with a solid thunk, then walks around to secure the boxes in the truck bed. I watch through the side mirror as he adjusts them, making sure they won't slide around during the drive. Careful. Methodical.
Taking care of my things like they matter.
The driver's door opens and Nash slides in, bringing a wave of cold air with him. He pulls the door shut and starts the engine. It rumbles to life—a deep, powerful sound that vibrates through the seat.
"How are Grayson and Theo today?" I ask as he pulls out of the parking spot, navigating through the apartment complex with practiced ease.
"Grayson's at the ranch," Nash says, maneuvering onto the main street.
The Sunday morning traffic is light—mostly people heading to the grocery store or running weekend errands.
"He's got cattle that need tending and some fencing that needs repair before the serious winter weather hits. Winter prep stuff that has to get done now or it'll be a nightmare later."
