“Okay. That’s not enough.”
She rolls her eyes. “Blake will kill me if I put on weight.”
My jaw nearly smacks the table. “Who the fuck is Blake?”
15
NIKKI
I’d almost think Marek is jealous. It’s kind of cute. But unnecessary.
“Blake is my manager. He handles the business side of things for me. Well, he manages pretty much everything for me.”
He’s also been calling and leaving voice messages every day since he left, but I don’t want to talk to him.
“What the fuck does your weight have to do with that?”
I feel a softness in my chest. “Unfortunately, it has a lot. I’ve been told my whole life that if I want to be famous and successful, I can’t put on weight.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He stares at me with his mouth open. “That’s disgusting.”
I blink at him, my own jaw loosening.
“Your whole life?” he adds, eyes narrowing. “Who told you that?”
I shouldn’t have said that. Shit. I press my lips together, then reluctantly say, “My parents.”
He slowly moves his head side to side. “That’s fucked up. Sorry, I know they’re your parents, but Jesus.”
“Says someone who’s obviously never had to worry about his weight.”
“Yeah, I have. I was a scrawny kid. I had to fight to put on weight.”
“That’s different.”
“Not so much. A hockey player who weighs a hundred fifty pounds isn’t going to get far. But my parents didn’t push me to do it. I did it because I wanted to and I did it in a healthy way.”
I want this conversation done. “My parents didn’t push me.” I drop my gaze to my latte.
“I guess I don’t know what they did. But obviously they drilled it into you that you can’t put on weight, since you still believe that.”
“Well, so does my manager,” I say with an edge of annoyance. “I need to look good on stage, and in photographs.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he finally says.
I suck my bottom lip, meet his eyes, then quickly look away. It’s nice to hear that, but he doesn’t understand the pressure that society puts on people to look a certain way.
We finish our coffees and return home, our conversation not as easy as it was before. I want to blame him for that, for being intrusive into my career, but as I replay the conversation over and over in my head, I know it’s because he cares about me. And once again, I didn’t react well. Why do I keep doing that? I’ve never had a hot temper. Lately, it seems like I get irritated so easily.
And he was right. My parents didn’t push hard, but they definitely commented on what I ate, or how I looked in a certain outfit or costume. And sometimes it hurt. Now, I know I’m pretty. I have experts who make me look good, and people tell me that all the time. But when Marek tells me that, it… means something.
When we get home, I take another shower. After being outside in the cold, a hot shower feels good. Then I return to my bed and my TV to pass the rest of a long day doing nothing.
I’m distracted, though. I keep thinking about this morning, waking up in bed with Marek. The awareness that sizzled between us. The temptation.
And I think about that moment on our walk where he looked at me like he wanted to kiss the breath out of me. And I wanted him to.
Whatever that was in Vegas is still there. Attraction. Fascination. Connection. I still really like him and I still really want to ride him like it’s the last leg of the Kentucky derby and we’re coming in second.
