Chapter 5
“Everything hurts, El,” I say to my phone screen, my beautiful bestie’s face staring back at me. “I can barely move a muscle. It’s a miracle I even made it to the couch.”
El chuckles. “Glad my nightly prayers are working.”
El—Elaine—and I met freshman year at college during sorority rush week. After we both chose the same sorority, we and the other new members were told to gather for a group photo.
El looked me square in the face and said without an ounce of hesitation, “Hi, I’m Elaine, and I don’t have a personal bubble.”
I answered with, “I’m Morgan, and neither do I,” and proceeded to jump on her back for the photo. We’ve been best friends and mutual weirdos ever since. There’s just one thing keeping me from spending my life with my true, platonic soulmate.
She lives in fucking Ohio. Not to mention, she’s married with two beautiful daughters.
I guess that’s three things.
Sticking my tongue out at the screen, I turn on my side, still on the couch, wincing with each movement.
“I’m sorry you’re in pain, girl,” El coddles in true motherly fashion, “but I’m proud of you for getting exercise.” She leans in and lowers her voice, probably so her girls don’t hear, adding, “Did any escapades ensue?”
“Maybe,” I say, waggling my eyebrows.
She smiles, and I see the hope in her eyes. “Maybe?”
“Escapades certainly began, but I may have…run away.”
And the hope is gone. “Dang it, Morgs, why? You said he’s the hottest man alive. What was it you called him? The sex god of something?”
“Sexy gym god.”
“Right. Then why did you run?”
I pull the blanket draped across my legs up to my chin. “You know why, El.”
Elaine’s brow furrows, but her voice softens as she says, “What happened with Douche-Face Supreme was three years ago. Don’t give that waste-of-a-human any more power over you. Don’t let him win, Morgan.”
My chin lifts a little. Elaine’s pep talks always have this effect on me—one of the many reasons I love her.
“I’m not,” I snap. “Or, at least, I didn’t mean to. It was a momentary lapse in…whatever I learned during therapy. To be honest, I’m still working on it. This whole move to Korea hasn’t been the best for my self-esteem. I’m just so—”
“If you call yourself ugly, disgusting, or anything of the sort, I’ll call your mother and personally tell her to smother the hell out of you.” My jaw snaps shut, knowing she’ll make good on her threat. “And the South Koreans are going to love you. Besides, I’ve been doing some research, and the internet says foreigners aren’t held to the same beauty standards.”
Because we’re all fatasses compared to them, I want to say but don’t. “Yes, and the almighty internet is never wrong.”
She scowls just as a knock sounds on the door. “Are you expecting someone?”
“At 9:00 AM on a Saturday? I don’t think so. Hold on, I’m turning you around and bringing you with me.” I make a noise I don’t even know how to describe—maybe sasquatch-in-labor —when I push myself off of the couch and waddle-limp over to the door, flipping the camera around.
The knock sounds again, and I yell out, “Coming!”
When I open the door, and a pair of onyx eyes rake over my body, I immediately become painfully, acutely aware of everything regarding my person. My unkempt, post-sleep hair flung out in every direction. My fucking morning dragon breath that could probably wipe out an entire civilization. My too-tight, too-old pajamas. And lastly, the fact that my boobs are living their best free and floppy life.
“Holy moly,” El says from the phone. “Is that the sexy gym god? Is he married? Wait, no, I’m married.”
Jiho chuckles with a smile that shows all of his perfectly white, straight teeth. “Good morning, Morgan, and…Morgan’s friend.”
My shocked self only stares at him until Elaine says, “Morgan, this is where you say good morning back to him.”
But I don’t. Instead, I blurt out, “Give me five minutes,” and slam the door in his face, bolting for my room. Flipping the camera back around, I rasp in a whisper, “El, what the hell do I do?”
Elaine belly-laughs, head thrown back and everything. “First, calm the hell down. Second, go let the man inside.”
“No freaking way. I look like a bear troll that just woke up from hibernation.”
“Okay, then, new plan. First, still calm the hell down. Second, change your clothes, pull up your hair, and brush your teeth. Then go let the man inside.”
“T-that’s doable,” I stammer.
“Exactly. Go get ‘em, tiger. Buh byyye.”
“No, don’t hang—” The bitch hangs up and, of course, doesn’t answer when I try to call back.
But she does send a text. Lucky me.
Yeah, yeah, love you, too.
I look up at the ceiling and let loose a breath, catching my reflection in the mirror when my head levels out again. The sight’s enough to spur my ass into action.
Running to the bathroom and hurriedly brushing my teeth, I splash water on my face and throw my curls up in a claw clip. They behave today, and I actually find myself thinking that my hair, at least, looks cute. I’ll consider it a small win.
Next, I’m onto clothes, reluctantly removing my new size-sixteen jeans from the bag I threw in the corner of my room yesterday. I wanted to forget about them, but they’re officially the only non-stretchy pants that fit me now, and desperate times call for desperate measures.
I slide them on, and, to my surprise, my ass looks great in them. I’m talking New York-Times-Best-Seller-Oscar-and-Grammy-award-winning great. Is this Jiho’s doing? Hell, if one session with him made my ass look like this, in three months, it’ll be post-BBL-Kardashian status. Sorry, that’s right—their asses are all natural.
Probably because I’m strangely feeling the hell out of myself, I finish the five-minute look with a white, low-cut top, sheer enough to see my black, lacy bralette that does wonders for the girls. Lucy and Ethel are sittin’ high and here to play. If Jiho’s fine ass is going to show up here unannounced, I may as well torture the man.
I give myself a once-more-over in the mirror.
“It’s as good as it’s going to get, girl,” I mumble, forcing my feet to head to the door. Checking my phone, I see that it’s actually been closer to ten minutes, and I only hope Jiho’s still here.
My stomach drops at the thought that maybe he left. I mean, after leaving him hard and dry last night, I would deserve it, right?
But I breathe a little easier when I open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe—seriously, this man and his ability to look so hot simply sitting and leaning—scrolling mindlessly on his phone.
“About damn time,” he grumbles as his thumb keeps swiping on his phone’s screen.
What is with this man and time? Wait… Is that my face?
“Are you stalking me on Instagram?” I ask, shocked, peering over the top of his phone to get a better look at the screen.
He doesn’t even try to hide it. Instead, he just keeps on scrolling, clicking on pictures of me along the way.
“Oh, absolutely,” Jiho drawls. “After you bolted last night like a bat out of hell, I figured you might try it again. I was half expecting you to bail out your bedroom window. Figured I’d find a good Have you seen me? photo to put on some flyers.” He swipes over to the tagged photos and pulls up one of me in a bikini, mid-bite into a massive piece of pizza, sitting on a beach towel, stomach rolls galore.
I lunge for it. “Oh my God, no! Give that here.”
Dammit, Michelle. I told you to delete that one.
But Jiho reacts too quickly, holding his phone high in the air. “No way, I love this one. I think it’s my favorite.”
At this point, I’m desperately climbing up his body to reach the phone, my boobs and bits smashing against him. And, of fucking course, that’s when he finally looks my way, his eyes going straight to Lucy and Ethel.
Jiho’s eyes catch mine, and raw, carnal need flashes in his dark irises, his arm lowering and the phone slipping free of his fingers.
I watch it fall and somehow catch it before it hits the ground. Hell, maybe I missed my calling. I could’ve been the next Mia Hamm, but instead of kicking balls, I’m catching phones. Hopefully, the balls will come later, preferably in the form of Jiho’s. Three fucking years, remember?!
“Good catch,” he says as I hand him his phone and back up a step.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, but uh… What are you doing here?”
Jiho pushes away from the wall and closes the distance I just tried to create. “You signed up for a nutrition consultation, remember? Jina had you down for 9:00 AM today. So,” he smiles and gestures to himself, “here I am, ready to nutritionally consult.”
My face scrunches. “Shit, that’s right. I knew I was forgetting something.” I look up at him, his face so close to mine that I feel his minty breath tickle my nose. My hands instinctively reach for that super-hot and super-close face, but I shove them last second into my back pockets. “Well, do you want to come in?”
“I think that’s a good place to start,” Jiho says, his smile turning into that smirky grin I’m literally addicted to.
What’s the saying about hardcore drugs? Not even once or something? Well, fuck that to the high heavens. I’ll take that grin once, twice, thrice, all the way to infinity and beyond.
We walk inside, Jiho removing his shoes as his eyes dart around the bottom floor of my tiny duplex. Complete with an L-shape sectional, coffee table, and sixty-five beautiful, brand-spanking-new inches of TV. I bought it for myself as a birthday gift earlier this year, because I’m an independent woman who don’t need no man.
I said need.
Want is a completely different story. I’ll happily take the Korean-American man standing in my living room and dripping in sex appeal any day of the week. One order of Jiho Park to go, please, with an extra side of—
“Nice place,” he notes, interrupting that very important thought.
I shrug. “It’s not much, but the location is great. I share the wall with an elderly woman who can barely hear, so it’s quiet, which is the best part. We both pay a landscaper to maintain the yard and flowers, because neither of us can keep a plant alive to save ourselves.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me as I rock back on my heels, fully aware of my rambling. “Buuut, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Yes, I do,” Jiho says, the seriousness in his tone and gaze making my heart thump harder. “But we should get started. We still need to go to the grocery store after I evaluate your diet.”
“Wow, this is getting personal.”
He looks like he wants to say something sassy—I’d wager about last night—but instead, he only chuckles. “Yeah, well, it’s part of the whole lifestyle improvement thing.” His eyes dart around the space again. “So, where’s the kitchen?”
“Oh, you don’t need to go in there,” I mutter a little too quickly, moving to the couch and taking a seat. My teeth sink into the insides of my cheeks as my legs scream their death, my hand patting the spot next to me. “You can evaluate my diet from right here.”
He cocks a brow. “What are you hiding in your fridge and pantry, Morgan?”
“What? I’m not hiding anything.” It’s true. I’m not hiding anything if you don’t count the outrageous number of Panda Express leftovers and the fact that the only vegetable—yes, a single one that now looks like a pile of moldy mush—has been living in the back of my produce drawer for close to a month now.
Jiho blinks, his face falling into exasperation, before sighing and taking off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Jiho, wait!” I yell out, trying to get back off the couch, kicking myself for having sat down again. With a one, two, three, and an “ow, ow, ow,” I’m up and limping after him. But I’m too late—Jiho already has both the fridge and the pantry open.
I was at least honest about the pantry. There’s hardly anything in there besides a container of oatmeal and spices I almost never use. But the fridge…
With a grip on the handle, Jiho bends down to evaluate my bounty.
“Good Lord, woman. Are you and Panda Express involved or something? And what the hell is this thing?”
Reaching in, he grabs the moldy mush that was once a cucumber—I think—cringing when its rotten juices leak from the bag.
My arms fold over my chest, fighting off the red I just know is creeping up my neck. “No, I just really like it, okay? And I work pretty late, so the last thing I want to do when I get home is cook.”
“That’s going to have to change. You can’t be pounding orange chicken and crab rangoons if your goal is weight loss.”
I purse my lips. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…hard.”
“Yeah, it is,” he surprisingly agrees, shutting the fridge. “But I’m here to help you. If you like Chinese food, there are a ton of healthier, low-calorie recipes out there that taste just as good. As for being too tired to cook, weekend meal preps will be your best friend.” He steps towards me, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be an adjustment, but you can do it. You’re a smart, capable woman.”
A giggle slips from my throat. “You sound like my mother and the silly affirmations she sends me.”
Jiho smiles adoringly, letting his hand trail from my shoulder to my elbow, and I swear the touch is electric. “I don’t know the woman, but I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.” Nodding in the direction of my front door, he adds, “Come on, let’s get to the store before the rush.”