Last night, I’d spent an hour analyzing memories of Ethan Quinn’ssmiles.
Smirks were supposed to be cocky, and his were too, but they were decidedly warm as well. A warm smirk. That was evidently a thing.
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself.
My phone buzzed, and I hurriedly opened the text from Ethan.
That’s fucking incredible! Good job, Natalie. Isn’t that better than hopping on a scale, to see it and feel it in your clothes?
I beamed. He was so right. He was also still typing, so I waited.
Not to say I wasn’t curious about my weight and measurements, but I wanted to hold on for a while longer. If I weighed myself today and noticed I’d only lost five or six pounds, I wouldn’t be able to logic my way out of that defeat. Even though I knew very well that muscle weighed more than fat and so on.
I’m having shrimp for dinner too. With roasted brussels sprouts. But I’m at home with nothing to do. You’re in Miami. Shouldn’t you be out trying a nice restaurant? Pajamas at eight PM on a Saturday…
Oh, please! If only he knew how I’d struggled today. Goodness, I’d been on my feet since seven this morning.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
First of all, yes, it feels good to see the weight loss in the mirror. Second of all, my feet are killing me! I wish I could have someone come up and rub them LOL. Third of all, nothing tops a night in with room service and PJs. :P
What I didn’t ask was why he didn’t have a date…
I released a breath.
What was happening? Was I developing some insane crush on my conceited yet super kind PT? How pathetic!
Oh God.
I went rigid where I sat, and I stared wide-eyed at nothing. I was one of those women he’d told me about. All those clients and members who’d flirted with him over the years? I was one of them. Fucking hell.
My phone buzzed again, and I dropped my gaze.
Ms. Nolan, I’m your PT. Please keep your foot fetish to yourself. This is entirely inappropriate.
I exhaled a laugh and slapped a hand against my face again.
Did he have to be so funny?
Two quiet knocks on the door alerted me to the arrival of my dinner, so I scrambled out of bed and scurried over to the door. While a polite server wheeled in a cart, I grabbed my purse to tip him. But the only thing I could think about was what to text Ethan. I wanted to keep the banter going.
“Thank you so much.” I handed over a five-dollar bill, eager to get back to bed. Where my phone was waiting.
“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy.”
The moment the door closed, I locked it and pushed the food cart to my bed, and I lifted the lid off the bowl. Damn, that looked good. Baby greens and loads of grilled shrimp. Some bread too—don’t mind if I do. I’d been good all day. If I skipped the butter…
“Grrr.” I hesitated and eyed my phone.
Oh, fuck it.
I called Ethan. Knowing full well it wasn’t part of our deal.
He picked up pretty fast, though. “Good evening, foot fetishist.”
I smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hi. Are you busy? I have a quick question.”
“Am I busy?” he chuckled. “Tell me what the coolest response is. I’m watching shrimp defrost, or I’m cleaning my kitchen?”
