4. Dotty
Chapter 4
Dotty
“ I really need to manifest a way out of here,” I tell the universe when I open my eyes to discover I’m in Zac Maple’s bedroom.
I’d been hoping that it was all a dream and that I’d wake up on my couch after working too late on another article about Betsy. I’d chuckle and check in with my bestie on the phone then I’d go about another boring, ordinary day.
It sounds like he’s moving around in his house. With the open concept layout that joins the living room, kitchen, and dining room, there’s no way I can sneak out the front door without him knowing. That only leaves a window in his bedroom.
I push myself into a sitting position and lean against his headboard. I rake my hair from my eyes, the sleeve of his shirt catching my attention.
He knows I wore his clothes. He’s probably going to have me arrested for hitting him with my car and stalking him. Will Martha testify in my defense at the trial? Will she at least tell Judge Helen that I had no intention of stalking Zac Maple?
What if the trial becomes evening news? What if it’s broadcast all over the world and I can never get a job again?
Before my anxiety spiral can deepen, I reach for the purple crystal around my neck. I run my fingers over the rough stone, trying to reach for a mantra that makes me feel strong and unstoppable. I am a force to be reckoned with. I can handle anything that comes my way.
No sooner have I had that thought than the bedroom door flings open and the cause of millions of panty drops is standing three feet from me. His five o’clock shadow and bedhead shouldn’t be that sexy but somehow, they are.
Zac is holding a steaming plate of breakfast foods and the smile that softens his features steals my breath away. He looks happy to see me. A strange feeling lodges itself in my throat. It’s a longing for something that I can’t quite put my finger on, but it hurts a little with every breath.
“I made food,” Zac says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He can’t be nervous. He’s eager to get me out of here.
“You don’t remember yesterday?” I ask. Maybe the universe heard me. Maybe he’s completely forgotten about that. Would that be a good thing? Or would it mean he has a brain injury?
“Yeah, you hit me. With your car.” He doesn’t sound vindictive. He doesn’t even sound angry.
“And you’re not mad?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t press my luck.
“I probably deserved it.” He gives me a grin, flashing his trademark dimples. Gah, how can one man be this cute? There’s got to be a law against it.
“You did not,” I mumble, my cheeks growing warm under his teasing grin.
He joins me on the bed, careful not to upset the plate he’s holding. The smell of scrambled eggs and bacon makes my mouth water. The golden-brown toast smeared with blackberry jam looks divine.
He puts his back to the headboard and suddenly, we’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. He’s acting like this is a perfectly normal moment for us to be having. “I made you food.”
“You made me food?” I blink at him, thinking this has to be a trap. My mother’s shrill voice echoes through my head, reminding me that a lady never eats more than three bites at a time.
When I eat, I think about how many hours I have to exercise to burn off a single donut. I struggle to enjoy a plate of food without feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. Instead of being fuel, food was a source of torment for years.
“I made you a big breakfast,” he answers.
“A big breakfast for the big girl,” I mutter, the words of the past ringing in my ears. I spent my high school years binging and purging. My bigger body made me an easy target for guys like Zac. Guys who were popular and handsome and fit.
My heart twists in my chest and before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve shoved off of the bed. I’m storming to his bedroom door when I feel Zac’s strong hand grip my bicep. I blink away tears, refusing to look at him.
He puts a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. “You are beautiful.”
My chin wobbles. I hate this. I hate that all it takes is one comment and I’m back there again, back to eating in secret and pretending that I don’t have a body that disgusts everyone else.
He tucks a strand of my wild hair behind my ear. “My first thought when I woke up this morning was how amazing your body feels against mine. Every curve is beautiful. Looking at you—you steal my breath away. Don’t you ever feel like you’re not perfect just the way you are.”
It’s the first thing in the morning, and I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’m pretty sure I have some major bedhead going on. But the way he’s looking at me—with that longing in his gaze— I suddenly understand why he sells millions of albums. Because Zac Maple is the sweetest cowboy in the world.
Maybe he didn’t mean a word he said, but it still warms me that he cared to comfort me when I was upset. He still tried to reassure me.
My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that up until I flipped out, I did actually want that breakfast plate he brought into the room. “I guess I can eat but let me use the restroom first.”
With those words, I flee to the bathroom where I try to convince myself that I am not developing a crush on Zac Maple. That would be completely insane!
After I do my best to smooth my hair down and borrow some of his toothpaste to finger-scrub my teeth, I wash my face. Then I look in the mirror and give myself a stern talking-to. “It’s no big deal that Zac made you breakfast.”
As soon as I say the words, a pit forms in my stomach. I think this is about last night. He probably thinks we slept together. Maybe that’s all this is. He thinks we slept together so he’s trying to be kind until it’s time to kick me out of his house.
I need to find a way to let him know that we didn’t have sex last night. I wouldn’t do that to him. Not that I don’t like Zac. He has such a nice body. He’s big and stocky.
He looks like he could crush me up against his chest. I’d have no hope of escaping one of his bear hugs, and suddenly, I’d like nothing more than for Zac to do exactly that to me. I’d like him to bear hug me, pinning my arms to my sides until I had no possible way to escape his grip. Then I’d like him to hold me forever.
When I step back into Zac’s bedroom, he’s back on the bed again. He pats the spot next to him, and I can’t stop smiling when I join him this time.
I’m careful not to jostle him as I climb on. He offers me the first bite of lukewarm eggs, and I take it. It’s weird to be fed by someone else. I can’t remember the last time I had anyone look out for me. I don’t want to think too much about that, so I push the thought back. “Martha said you fell off stage a couple of days ago. How are you feeling now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not in too much pain now that you’re close.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes before I finally decide to talk about last night. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea about why I was in his bed. “Last night, we didn’t…you know.”
He frowns. “What?”
I’m pretty sure if my face were any hotter, this whole room would burst into flames. “You know, we didn’t do… things …together. Not that I would be your first choice for that. Or anyone’s, really. It’s that I don’t want you to have the wrong—”
He puts a finger to my lips, his gaze glittering as he stares at me. “You will always be my first choice to do… things …with. You are my only choice.”
OK, so the guy is weird. Before I can ask him what he possibly meant by saying that, his phone rings. He frowns, grabbing it off the nightstand. I see a woman’s name flash across the screen as Zac explains, “It’s my manager. She shouldn’t be calling me.”
As soon as Zac answers, a female voice booms across the line, “Batten down the hatches. The press caught wind of this.”
“How?” Zac demands.
I’m not sure what they caught wind of, but Zac doesn’t sound too worried.
He turns on speakerphone as his manager says, “A social media post from someone in your hometown went viral. Whoever posted it has pictures of you with your arm around Dotty’s shoulders. The media is running with it, bunch of vultures.”
My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I reach for my own phone. I flick open Courage Spills the Tea on Instagram. Sure enough there are pictures of me and Zac as I helped him from the clinic after we saw Martha. He stumbled and I put his arm around my shoulders to give him balance. It was innocent, but the post makes it sound like the two of us have been engaged in secret rendezvouses for months.
“None of this is true!” I protest, even knowing that it doesn’t matter. Working in journalism has taught me that most reporters don’t care about the accuracy of the story, as long as they get there first.
Thea continues, “We’ll need to make a statement about your relationship soon. Wait, someone is beeping through. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”
As she hangs up, I continue scrolling through my social media feed. So many people are talking about me and Zac. We even have our own trending hashtag. I let out a little squeak, barely able to process this. “The whole world thinks we’re dating.”