Chapter 7 #2
Then I take one last look around before leaving, closing the door behind me.
It's over.
Whatever Caleb was to me, it's done. I've moved on.
But the man deserves credit where credit is due.
Without him…
I can't even think it, but I must.
Without him… I'd probably be dead.
I dump everything on my kitchen counter—laptop, dead ornaments, the weight of my entire former existence—and head straight for my bedroom.
I strip out of my sundress and dig through the activewear section until I find the black leggings with the mesh cutouts running down the sides and a matching sports bra that actually fits properly. There's a cropped hoodie too—charcoal gray, expensive fabric that moves like water.
In the mirror, I look... different.
Not just the platinum hair or the new clothes.
Something about my posture has changed. My shoulders don't curl inward anymore. I'm not trying to disappear into myself.
I grab my new gym bag, fill it with the essentials, then I head out.
Downtown Idaho Falls isn't exactly bustling, but the afternoon sunlight makes everything feel lighter somehow. People pass me on the sidewalk and I don't immediately catalog all the ways they're judging me.
Some of them aren't even looking at me.
The ones who are... they're not looking at me like I'm something broken they need to avoid.
I feel satisfied. Complete, almost.
Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I should be doing, instead of hiding in a blanket fort pretending the world doesn't exist.
And maybe—just maybe—I'm thinking about Ryan.
Not in the usual way. Not the desperate, frantic fantasizing that used to consume me about fictional men doing terrible things.
Just... Ryan.
How he smiled at the airport when he saw my new hair. "Holy shit, Scarletta. You look amazing."
How he insisted on helping me with my suitcases even though I told him I could manage.
How he opened the Uber door and told me "See you soon," like he actually meant it.
I was genuinely flattered that he even noticed me.
I'd noticed him, obviously. You can't miss Ryan at Iron River Fitness. His office sits elevated in the center of the gym floor like some kind of glass fishbowl, and he's always up there—watching his clientele with this benevolent intensity, like he actually cares whether people hit their goals.
He's objectively gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly sculpted in that way that suggests he actually lives the lifestyle he sells. His body is covered in bird tattoos—and I mean covered. Sleeves that disappear under his shirt, ink crawling up his neck, vanishing beneath his collar.
They're not random flash pieces scattered across his skin. They're intricate, custom work. Each bird is different—ravens, swallows, hawks—rendered in this incredible detail that suggests hours in the chair and serious money spent.
Beautiful doesn't quite cover it. They're art. The kind of tattoos that tell a story, even if I don't know what that story is yet.
Completely out of my league.
That's where my attention stopped. Because why torture myself imagining scenarios where someone like Ryan would want someone like me?
Except...
Maybe I'm not out of his league anymore.
Maybe—and this feels dangerous to even think—maybe I'm exactly his type.
He was certainly friendly at the airport.
Really friendly.
I round the corner and Iron River Fitness comes into view, all glass and chrome, and the promise of people who've figured out how to exist in their bodies without hating themselves.
My heart does this stupid flutter thing.
Because Ryan might be in there.
And for the first time in my entire goddamn life, I'm not immediately constructing elaborate reasons why someone wouldn't want me.
I push through the glass doors and immediately scan the gym floor. Looking for Ryan. Hating myself a little that I'm looking for Ryan.
Because that's what I do, right? Fixate on men who—
"Scarletta!"
And there he is. Walking toward me with that easy confidence, wearing a fitted black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he's built like some kind of Greek statue.
My brain short-circuits. "Hey," I manage, and I sound almost normal. Almost.
"I was starting to worry you weren't gonna show up today." He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "You're usually here by now."
He's been thinking about me.
He knows my schedule.
Heat floods my face and I pray the gym lighting hides how hard I'm blushing.
"I had some business to attend to," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Old life stuff. But I wouldn't miss my daily workout for anything."
Lie.
Except... maybe it's not?
I have been coming here every day. Not because I care about fitness goals, or sculpting my body, or any of that motivational poster bullshit.
But because it kills time. Because it's something to do that isn't sitting in my apartment spiraling.
Ryan's gaze sweeps over me—not in a creepy way. Just... appreciative. Professional but warm.
He meets my eyes again and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach flip.
"Want some help with your workout today?" he asks.
"No." The word comes out automatically, defensive. "I mean, I'm good. I just do the treadmill and stairclimber anyway, so..."
God, I hate myself.
Why did I say it like that? Like I'm apologizing for taking up space? Like I need to justify my boring routine to him?
But Ryan doesn't look put off. If anything, his smile widens.
"How about I give you a new personal fitness plan?" He leans against the counter, casual, easy. "On the house. Your body already looks amazing, Scarletta—seriously, whatever you've been doing is working—but if you'd like to actually sculpt it? I'm the guy. I can help."
My mouth goes dry.
Your body already looks amazing.
He thinks my body looks amazing.
Ryan—gorgeous, successful, completely-out-of-my-league Ryan—thinks I look amazing.
I should say something.
Anything.
Instead I'm just standing here like an idiot, staring at him, my new metallic purple nails digging into the strap of my gym bag.
"Um… OK." OK? That's it? That's the extent of my game? For fuck's sake, Scarletta, level the fuck up!
"I mean, yes. Obviously—" I slowly lower my eyes, then raise them back up, "—you know what you're doing."
He smiles, then laughs. "Are you dangerous, Scarletta?"
"What?" I giggle.
"That look. Wow. You just checked me the fuck out."
"So? Did you hate it?"
"Not at all, button. I'm diggin' it hard."
"Button?" I snort.
"Yeah." He pauses, smiling all the way up to his gleaming eyes. "You're like… cute as a fuckin' button."
"Oh, my god."
"I'm lame, right?"
"Well… yeah. But…" I let out a breath. We're flirting. And I love it. "Totally lame. Please don't stop."
His smile lingers a few moments too long. Like he's really thinking about this interaction. "So… let's go," he says, and there's something different in his voice now—lower, rougher around the edges.
He steps a little closer, not crowding me but close enough that I can smell whatever clean, woodsy scent he's wearing.
"I'll show you exactly how to turn your already amazing body into something so goddamn fuckable that every single man within a two-hundred-mile radius will be lining up, practically begging for the chance to take you out."
My brain short-circuits.
Fuckable.
He just said fuckable.
To my face.
Like it's a completely normal thing to say to someone you're training.
My pulse is hammering so hard I'm pretty sure he can see it in my throat. My face is burning. Every nerve ending in my body just woke up at once, screaming.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Nothing comes out.
Ryan's watching me with that same easy confidence, like he didn't just detonate a bomb in the middle of my carefully maintained composure. Like he knows exactly what that word did to me—and he's enjoying it.
Then he turns and heads toward the machines—casual, confident, like he didn't just rearrange every single thought in my brain.
While I stay rooted in place.
Mouth open.
Heart pounding.
The word fuckable looping on repeat in my head like some kind of filthy mantra I can't shut off.
He wants me.
The realization crashes through me. Hot, and disorienting, and impossibly real.
He actually wants me.
Not hypothetically. Not in some vague, distant, maybe-someday sense.
He wants me. Right now. Enough to say it out loud. Enough to use a word like that and watch what it does to me.
My legs feel shaky. My skin feels too tight. Everything inside me is vibrating at a frequency I don't recognize.
I force myself to move. One foot in front of the other.
Hurrying to catch up.
Ready to see exactly where this goes.