Page 38 of The Backup Plan

I step around the measly mountain of boxes—my entire life reduced to cardboard—that the movers stacked between the couch and the mounted TV. The bedroom is simple but functional. Queen-sized bed. White comforter set. A decent sized shower with separate toilet.

I drop my purse on the dresser and pause, bracing my palms against the edge as a wave of dizziness hits me.

Not panic. Not fear. Just utter exhaustion.

I trail my fingers over the wood as I move back into the living space, taking it all in.

This place isn’t bad. But it feels clinical. And I prefer that feeling stay at work. Thankfully, I don’t have to rush, and I can look for something permanent later. Something with light and character and a life outside of football.

I’ll add some plants. Some touches of color. A few candles here. Something that says a woman lives here, that I live here, and that it’s not just a body that sleeps when she’s not fixing others.

Jared hated bright colors. I’ll make sure this damn place is filled with them.

He thought plants were dirty. I look forward to nurturing something that actually gives me something back. Unlike him.

The job came fast. One phone call. Three Zoom interviews. Calls from previous coworkers telling me my references were being checked. A contract was emailed with a we need you now urgency that didn’t leave room for hesitation.

So I jumped.

For once in my life, I didn’t overanalyze. I didn’t hedge. I didn’t wait for permission.

This look-before-you-leap woman, just fucking leaped. On the drive from Colorado to Austin, it felt like that leap was without a parachute, but I’m certain I’ll find my footing.

And the free fall didn’t stop until I walked into the facility this morning and knew—deep in my bones—that I’d made the right choice.

Yeah, temporary will do just fine.

A slow smile curves my lips. My first place that Jared hasn’t touched. Hasn’t tainted. Hasn’t taken something from.

Excitement bubbles up and I hug myself with the thought that for the first time in several years, I can be whoever I want to be, and no one will know any different.

With a laugh that almost feels victorious, I grab my keys and head down to my car to retrieve the suitcase I’ve been living out of while waiting for this apartment to be ready.

The sun is low now, the heat still stifling, still clinging, but less oppressive in the early evening shadows.

I weave through two parked cars toward my older SUV, and that’s when I see him.

Of course, I do.

Lucas Hale leans against a truck a few spaces down. His phone is pressed to his ear with one hand, and he’s spinning his car keys on his finger with his other. He has one ankle crossed casually over the other like he hasn’t just spent the entire day putting his body through hell. He’s out of his practice gear now, dressed in khaki shorts, and a fitted shirt with his sleeves revealing biceps that just aren’t fair.

Not that I notice.

He looks relaxed. At ease in a way he wasn’t earlier.

He looks up at the same time I do.

There it is again—that strange hitch in my chest. The reminder that this man has already seen me stripped of all composure and dignity.

“Hey.” He pockets his phone and straightens.

“I don’t usually take well to stalkers,” I tease.

“As most people don’t.” He chuckles, but there’s something about the way those blue eyes look at me, like he’s searching to make sure that I’m okay, that has my throat closing.

Uncertain of what to say or how to say it, I open the back of my car instead.

“Moving in?” he asks, lifting his chin toward me.