He frowned like that was a lot. He didn’t know there’d been a time when she refused to sleep simply to avoid the nightmares that plagued her nightly—or even multiple times in one night.
“What do you do after you have them?”
He hadn’t asked what she dreamed about, and she was grateful for that. And because he wasn’t pushing her, she gave him the truth. “I usually go for a run. I can never fall asleep afterward.”
Sean quickly checked the phone on his night table. “Four in the morning,” he murmured. “It’s pretty early for a run. How about we go in a couple of hours?” His gaze swept over her, assessing, searching. “Is it okay if I touch you right now?” he asked carefully.
She almost cringed in embarrassment and frustration with herself. It had been years. How long did a person go before they didn’t need to be asked if they could be touched after a nightmare? But Sean was looking at her like he didn’t care. Like he’d ask forever, if that’s what she needed. Normally after a nightmare she never wanted to be touched. She wanted to run until her lungs burned, and then have the hottest shower she could stand until every memory her nightmares triggered was cleaned off her body. But tonight, the need to punish her body wasn’t screaming as loudly as normal. Tonight, being touched didn’t feel as revolting as it had before. Tonight wasn’t normal. And she wanted to lean into it.
So she nodded and said, “Yes, it’s okay.”
Gently, he drew her down to him, brushing her hair out of the way so her cheek lay flat against his chest. They lay there in the quiet, his fingers tracing a line up and down her arm.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” Ivy whispered into the stillness.
His responding rumble vibrated against her cheek. “Count them.”
The rhythmic thumping against her ear was hypnotic, and her own heart scrambled to match it. On an inhale, she closed her eyes—and counted while he steadily stroked her arm.
One…two…three…
Her head rose and fell with his breath.
Four…five…
The beats passed, until her hand and his heart were one unit, moving together in a continuous rhythm. As she focused, the rest of her tension deflated, and miraculously her breathing deepened as her body grew heavy.
As if he could tell, he said, “It’s okay, Ivy. No more nightmares tonight. You can sleep, I’ve got you.”
And with the pulse of his heart strumming its lullaby under her hand, she slept.
CHAPTERTWENTY
“Long dresses make me look even shorter than I am,” Ivy protested. She and Hope were in a small boutique on NW 23rdAve. It had been a week since Sean asked her to the gala, and she’d put off shopping as long as she could.
Hope loomed in front of her, with a long black mermaid-style dress dangling from her fingertips, and sighed in frustration. Not her first that day.
“You’ve already refused to try on the lace cocktail dress I suggested.” Hope complained.
“Because I hate lace.”
“Regardless, when are you going to trust that I know what I am doing? I’ve been to dozens of galas. Hundreds! I know what will work and what won’t.”
“Yes,” Ivy agreed. “And you know what will work on your long, willowy, perfect body. Which is everything. But I’m five-foot-three and flat as a washboard with no bum to speak of and bulky arms. A long dress will drown any assets I do have, and by assets, I mean my calves. I have nice calves.”
Hope rolled her eyes and shoved Ivy into the changeroom with the dress. “You’re average height according to the North American standard, and you have small but perky breasts, your arms are toned not bulky, and the only washboard on you are your abdominals. Ivy, really, you should hear yourself. You’ve earned the body you’re in. Now try on this dress. Trust me, with gowns and height—or lack thereof—it’s all about the silhouette.”
True, she shouldn’t be so self-critical. Enough people had come through the gym thinking it was a one-way street to self-love to last Ivy a lifetime. She’d worked years to hone a strong, lean body with fight skills to match, and it still hadn’t healed what was wrong on her inside. So she was tired of everyone, especially the media, trying to sell people this idea that they’d find self-respect in the gym.Love yourself, as you are, which is fabulous. Own it. That was her message to everyone.
Except it was very different touting someone else’s body positivity. It was a lot easier to be self-critical than admit that, yeah, she did have a pretty smoking bod, albeit a shortish one, and she’d worked damned hard to get it that way too.
Nevertheless, as she stared down the gown she’d hung on the hook, the shame and self-loathing she’d carried like an Albatross for three years reared its ugly head. Who was she kidding? Sean Thompson was going to be a big name the night of the gala. He had five fighters entered in the competition. It was his chance to promote his gym, his brand, and his skills as a trainer. He’d be doing as much schmoozing as supporting his fighters. This was a huge night for him and his business, and he needed someone strong, capable, and supportive by his side.
Not a broken, used, shadow of a girl who was playing desperately at being normal. But as Ivy reached for the adjectives that defined her for so long, she found they didn’t fit as well as they used to. Since she and Sean had started their—whatever it was they were doing—her self-hatred had morphed into something different. Something worthwhile.
The transformation had been slow and painful, but it was there.
And to honor the metamorphosis inside her, she put the dress on and turned into someone she barely recognized. The silhouette hugged her hips and seemed to lengthen her legs before flaring at the bottom. The snug, low cut top made her breasts look a few sizes bigger than they were.
