Or me.
So why does the last option hurt so much?
I spend the day tidying up my apartment. I need to keep myself busy and practice my cleaning moves.
Me. Atticus Ford’s cleaning maid.
It sounds funny but I can’t deny I’m dying of curiosity to see his house.
In the afternoon, I curl up on my sofa and work on my comic, my thoughts spinning.
Am I proud to be a cleaning maid? Work is never something to be ashamed of, I know that. But do I have more dreams? Hell, yes. I want to publish my comic and be a famous comic artist one day, only I’m not ready to submit anything yet.
Yet another thing delegated to “one day.” Another thing I was always told to move away from. Not serious. Too childish. “That’s not a job, Coco. You can never live from art. You’re not Da Vinci. Learn something practical.”
Well, cleaning houses is practical. Can’t get any more practical and hands-on than that, right?
Mom and Dad won’t like it. Then again, they generally aren’t happy with the jobs I’ve worked. They think I can do better. They want their daughter to have a high position, a position they mention to their friends without feeling embarrassed.
I’m such an embarrassment. I try not to let it get to me, but sometimes I can’t help but feel bad about it. About myself. For being difficult and weird. About not making something of myself and letting everyone down.
By the time the expected knock comes on my door, I’ve managed to drive myself into a deep hole and I’ve finished all the considerable amount of ice cream in my freezer.
I discreetly burp sugar and chocolate as I open the door to this perfectly sculpted god of the gym, and feel… dejected.
“Hi,” Zach says and enters my humble, pink abode, sucking all the air from it with his golden presence. “Ready for our class?”
I nod and drag my feet to the sitting room where he proceeds to shed his denim jacket, remaining in a white T-shirt and jogging pants, just to tempt me.
By the way, just to be clear, I don’t have an issue with my body. I’m curvy. Hell, I’m generously curvy, and I like it. I don’t see why we all have to be thin. All body shapes are good, and omegas tend to be on the shorter, curvier side anyway.
But tonight, especially when he starts showing me various moves, I feel off.
It could be all the ice cream, of course. I feel queasy.
“Are you feeling unwell? We can stop for a moment. Come, sit.” He guides me to the sofa and I sit down gratefully. “I forgot you’re not used to exercise.”
“Way to make me feel good about myself.” I laugh.
“I didn’t mean?—”
I wave a hand at him. “You’re right. I’m out of shape.”
“I love your shape,” he whispers, lashes lowering.
“What did you say?”
“I’ll get you some water,” he mutters, jumping to his feet, leaving me alone on the sofa to gape after him.
Did Zach just make me a compliment? Is he actually flirting with me?
After Atticus’ rejection, Zach’s comment makes me smile. Do I need compliments to believe I’m pretty? Maybe. Shouldn’t I be confident and not need anyone else’s opinions of me? Oh, sure. But life rarely works that way.
Deep inside, we all have some insecurity or other. And it’s been a tough few days.
A tough few years, too.
Come on, this is Zach. The golden god himself. One of the alphas who not only caught my eye but also my thoughts. I find myself thinking about him a lot.
