Page 13 of Flat Out
– Protein smoothie is in the door. Drink it. No arguments.
PS: Drink water. Even if you're not thirsty. Especially then. Don't be an idiot.
Je t'aime.
–A
My hand shook as I reached for the fridge handle. A smoothie sat just inside the door just as she'd written, and three stacked containers of food were on the shelves.
I’d been asleep, healing. And in that time, Aurélie had launched a war, taken care of me like it was second nature, and still found time totalk to my mother.
I opened my messages and scrolled to the most recent thread with Mum.
She’d sent a thumbs up, a heart, and two texts.
Mum
You better make that French girl your wife.
And tell her I said hi.
I didn’t reply, just stared at the screen with my heart in my throat, because I already knew the second she broke into my flat, she wasmine. I'd known it for a long time, but this was next-level devotion that I would never take for granted again.
The wordwifericocheted in my brain, bringing with it the ghost of that nightmare I couldn’t shake—her in white, a veil framing her face, stepping onto the track. The screech of tires, waking with my heart clawing against my ribs, convinced I’d lost her before I’d even had the chance to make it official.
Except now the image was different. Still her in white and wearing a veil, but this time it was me standing beside her. My hand in hers. No brakes, no screech, no fear—just forever. And suddenly, it was all so fucking clear.
Swiping the smoothie from the door, I headed back to the bedroom, only to pause by the guest room. The bathroom light was left on, and when I went in there, I found another note. It was like an Easter egg hunt that had my heart flipping with excitement.
Remember the last time we showered in here?
XO
I groaned, my voice hoarse. Becauseof courseI remembered worshipping at her feet and coming all over her pretty pink toenails after I ate her out.
Fuck.
Nope, I couldn't think about this right now. It had been almost a month since we'd had sex, and I was about two seconds from telling my PR team to fuck off.
Maybe I should.
After all, she was going on her own crusade. I could support her…
Just as both my brain and my dick started to throb, I heard the sound of a live audience clapping, filtering down the hallway. I moved as quickly as I could, smoothie and sticky notes in hand,and made it to the bedroom just as Ava Richards—the founder of the advocacy platform Pole Positioned—started speaking.
I turnedup the volume just as the stream began to buffer. A few seconds of glitchy gray, and then my girl walked out with a bright smile and an adorable wave at the crowd who cheered for her.
She walked onto the set as if she hadn’t just blown up the sport from the inside out, sobbed outside my door, and then kissed me goodbye with trembling hands. She was radiant, collected, and dangerous through her exhaustion.
Her hair was slicked back in a sharp ponytail that said she didn’t come to play. Her shirt was crisp, tucked into tailored black jeans that showed off the curve of her hips—hips I’d gripped while she fell apart for me time and time again.
But it was the red lip that knocked the wind out of me. Not the smeared kind from crying or the messy kind from kissing me into oblivion. War paint, because her usual color was pink.
She looked like vengeance in stilettos. A woman with facts and fury and nothing left to lose. The camera panned as she sat down, and that’s when I saw them. The earrings—small, gold, glittering diamond hoops. They were the ones she wore in Monaco, the ones I unclasped with my teeth when I made love to her in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom.
I nearly choked.
My head still throbbed, and my ribs ached every time I breathed, but none of it mattered, because I was transfixed. I’d seen her unravel. Now I got to watch her rise.
