Page 33 of Bottle Shock
“Tell me anyway.”
“Flannel Christmas pajamas.” She laughs. “They’re my mom’s. I was too lazy to go through my things.”
Scottie has no idea how attractive she is. This woman could wear a paper bag and still outshine everyone else.
“I’ve always been a big fan of flannel Christmas pajamas. Bonus points if they have reindeer on them.”
“Are you spying on me?” she whisper-squeals. “That’s exactly what these are.”
“Lucky guess.”
I can’t remember the last time I stayed up talking on the phone with someone—or had this much fun doing it.
“I should go to sleep.” The sound of her blankets rustling flows through the phone, and I imagine her curled up beneath them. I wish she had taken me up on my offer, but the more I picture her staying here, the more the image morphs—from the bed in the pool house to my bed—and it’s a bad idea to go there.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Me too.”
“Goodnight,” she says softly, like she’s already drifting to sleep.
“Goodnight, Scottie.”
CHAPTER 9
Scottie
THIS INSTRUCTOR IS A DEMON
“Rise and shine, bitches.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. This instructor is a demon.
“I thought you said this was a Pilates class,” I hiss to Elyse, trying to catch my breath while my legs tremble in the straps like a baby deer.
It is,” she says, perfectly calm as she floats through whatever sadistic move we’re doing. “Power Pilates.”
Right. I guess I missed the power part.
“Neutral spine,” the demon calls, clapping. “Core engaged. Pull-pull-pull. Smile!”
My core is engaged. My core is dying.
Something in my neck catches when I bring my legs back to tabletop. That stupid couch at my parents’ has given me a permanent kink. The springs on the reformer groan beneath me. This bed of medieval straps and pulleys might be the first thing all week that hurtslessthan that stupid fucking couch.
“Breathe,” Elyse says softly, like a person who is not currently being tortured on a wood sled. She reaches across and taps the front of my ribs. “Here. Expand.”
“I would expand,” I whisper, “but all my organs have migrated to my throat.”
“Good,” the instructor chirps. “Now ten more.”
Ten more what. Ten more minutes? Ten more years? Ten more lives to get this exercise right?
We push through the set. I can feel sweat sliding down my spine in a line my sports bra will etch into salt. I am not built for this. My version of a nice morning consists of coffee and reruns ofDownton Abbey.
“Carriage home,” the instructor says. “Feet out. Box time.”
“Box time?” I repeat, terrified and confused as hell. Surely this is some form of torture invented by the military.
She wheels a foam box to the foot of my reformer. “Kneeling lat pulls.”
