19. Blakely
NINETEEN
Blakely
My lips are still tingling with the memory of Jackson’s kiss. Closing the front door, I lean against it, the wood cool against my overheated skin. My fingertips trace along the top of my chapped mouth, stomach flipping as I replay the feel of his tongue tangling with mine.
What in the world just happened?
My heart flutters as I think about how everything just shifted and how surprisingly, even though it was completely unexpected, I’m okay with it. Now that I’ve had a taste of him, I don’t know if I can let him go. I grin, butterflies bursting from my stomach as I squeal, spinning off the door and skipping to the stairs.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He’s so much more than I ever expected, not that I have a lot of experience to pull from. My life has been far too busy—too career-focused—to have time for a boyfriend. So even though my body was screaming at me to let him devour me whole, my nerves wouldn’t let me, terrified of being a disappointment.
Even thinking the word sends my brain into overdrive, making the anxiety that’s currently lying dormant perk up and come alive inside me.
I never thought he’d want me. Never realized that maybe all the joking and the forward advances were harder to resist than he showed. Now that I know there’s a chance, I can’t help but wonder how we’re supposed to navigate everything. Our lives are polar opposites, both of us having a million different reasons for why we shouldn’t be together. Why we shouldn’t explore these feelings that have come out of nowhere and slapped me upside the head.
My dad would kill him.
Sierra would kill me.
But he also makes me happy. Safe. Grounded. And I don’t have much of that in my life, so I’ll do everything in my power to keep him—even if it has to be in secret.
The uncertainty of our situation bears down on me, the adrenaline from earlier wearing off, allowing the reality of the unknown to fill me up, overflowing with what-ifs.
My stomach turns, the wine from earlier teasing the back of my throat, reminding me I indulged when I shouldn’t have.
Why did I do that? And why didn’t I add it in my fitness app?
Pausing on the stairs, I pull up my calorie tracker, inputting the glass of merlot and trying to remember if Jackson said what type of cheese we were eating. Racking my brain for minutes and coming up blank, I type “cheese,” into the app, my fingers pressing against the screen firmly while I scroll through their system, searching for something familiar. But there are so many options and my memory is muddled from the wine. Unease chomps away at my gut, splitting a pit open inside of me, burning with the need to figure it out so I can know my final nutrition stats for the day.
One. Two. Three. Deep breath out.
I jog up the stairs, passing by the eternal beauty of my mother’s face and changing into my workout gear.
It’s okay. It’s just a few pieces of cheese. I say the words like a mantra, trying to keep the focus on my breath, instead of the loathing that’s scratching under the surface of my skin. Cheese is high in calories, I know this, and still, I couldn’t stop myself.
Pathetic.
With every set of weights, I repeat the phrase— It’s just a few pieces of cheese —pleading with my body to find satisfaction in the sweat, hoping the hours I’ll spend here tonight will be enough to stop the clawing of the unknown numbers that are tearing up my mind.
I shouldn’t have had the cheese.
Stupid, Blakely.
“They’re willing to pay you two hundred and fifty thousand for the first month,” my lawyer, Andrew, says through the speakerphone. I scrunch my nose, leaning over to look at the contract while Sierra sits next to me crunching on a piece of celery with peanut butter.
“And I’m expected to post every day?” I look to Sierra.
She nods. “Every day with cross posts on your other social media. It’s a video platform, so they’ll be ten- to sixty-second videos.”
“What kind of videos? Do we even have time to make them?”
Sierra shrugs. “I think if we block out a day to film content for the week, we can make it happen.” She pauses, setting down her half-eaten celery stick. “I do think you’ll be leaving less time for your other commitments which could affect your bottom line. Two hundred and fifty K looks pretty on paper, but it isn’t really enough to make up the difference.”
“Hmm…” I lean back, crossing my arms as I think about what she’s saying. She’s not wrong. If we’re blocking out an entire day, that’s twenty-four hours we lose. I could do multiple branded shoots in that time. “Andrew, does it say anything about exclusivity?”
“There’s a noncompete agreement in place for six months after the contract ends.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s not happening. How long does the contract last?”
“This one is for three months with the option for renegotiation or extension at the end of the terms.”
Raising my arms above my head as I sigh, my muscles stretch, a satisfying pain radiating down the tissue and making me bite back a groan. After last night’s marathon workout, I’m so sore it hurts to breathe. But it’s a good kind of hurt, the type that makes satisfaction drip through me with every motion.
That combined with doing my favorite part of this job—negotiating contracts and running a meeting where I call all the shots—has me feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. A skewed puzzle piece slotting back in place.
“How many appearances do we have lined up this next month?” I ask, grabbing a piece of celery for myself, my eyes taking inventory of what’s left on the plate.
Three pieces left. That’s six total with a tablespoon of peanut butter, which for this brand is ninety-four calories and three point five grams of protein.
Gratification sinks into my bones as I mentally calculate, relieved to be at home where I can eat things I know the stats of by heart. Where I won’t have to waste my energy worrying over what will be offered or how I’ll explain away not eating like everyone else.
Having to constantly explain my lifestyle gives me a headache. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for other people to understand, or just, you know…mind their business.
Sierra pulls up my calendar. “You have six club appearances and an opening at a new restaurant downtown this afternoon.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Do I have to do that?”
Sierra smirks. “Yes.”
Making a gagging motion, I flip the page of the contract, debating whether I want to accept the terms or renegotiate. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I list out the pros and cons in my mind, crossing them off mentally and allowing the contentment of coming to a decision flow through me.
I push the papers away, leaning over my phone. “Andrew, tell them for that price, I’ll post three times a week for one month. Or they can do a three-month contract for five hundred with daily posting. Either way, I’ll only sign a noncompete for the duration of the contract. If I’m no longer with them, I want the freedom to go somewhere else. I work for myself, not for them.”
Chewing my lip, I run over everything I just said. “Oh, and make sure I’m able to terminate the contract easily if needed.”
“Got it. I’ll write it up and send it over.”
A grin breaks across my face, pleasure trickling through my insides at the feeling of success. Of running my business and knowing I’m doing it well.
I end the call, noticing a text message blinking on my phone.
Jackson:
Free tonight, princess?
My cheeks heat, but I school my features as quickly as possible, even though nerves are skittering through my stomach. I glance at Sierra, hoping she didn’t notice the way I just turned into a schoolgirl with a crush.
She watches me with a brow raised as she munches on her food.
Clearing my throat, I place my phone in my pocket, picking up my uneaten celery stick and pointing it in the air as I angle it toward her. “Cheers.” I smile wide, my spine stiffening from her inquisitive stare.
The last thing I want is to have to explain things, especially when I’m not even sure what’s going on myself.
“What?” I ask, taking a huge bite to try and cover the guilty look on my face.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “It’s nice to see you back on your game.” She smacks her hands on her legs and hops from the island barstool. “Kayla’s meeting us in two hours at the restaurant. You have glam in twenty minutes. Wear the joggers from the Jacob Lancaster campaign, please, so we can get some good street shots.”
The contentment from earlier starts to wither away, the strings of my manager tugging from where they’re wrapped around my limbs.
I nod and wait for Sierra to leave the room before I slip my phone out of my pocket, glancing at the hallway door to make sure she’s out of sight. My heart pounds against my ribs as I click on Jackson’s name and reread his earlier message.
It’s bittersweet though, now that I realize my schedule won’t allow me to sneak away. I won’t be able to see him until tomorrow at Donahue Motors.
Me:
My schedule is pretty booked today. See you tomorrow?
My teeth drop into my lower lip, working back and forth as I watch the text bubble pop up on the screen.
Jackson:
If you’re lucky. ;)
A smile spreads across my face, and I can’t help the way my heart flips from his reply.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and I’m not sure what he’ll say or how I’ll react, but for the first time, in as long as I can remember, I think I’m excited for the unknown.