Page 527 of Bad Prince

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Persistent.

A little stupid.

And maybe that’s why, when I turn to go toward the table, I toss one last glance over my shoulder and say, “You’re impossible.”

He leans back in the chair and watches me walk away like he has absolutely no intention of going anywhere.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m patient.”

That line follows me all the way to treatment.

Which is deeply annoying.

Almost as annoying as the fact that when I lie back on the table and the trainer starts working on my hamstring, I can still feel Drew’s eyes on me from across the room—not heavy, not gross, not pushy.

Just there.

Waiting.

And for the first time all morning, the ache in my chest shifts.

Not gone.

Not even close.

But changed.

Less like humiliation.

More like anger finally looking around for somewhere useful to go.

Across the room, Drew catches me looking.

His mouth curves.

And like the giant, smelly, aggravating menace he is, he taps two fingers to his temple and mouths:

‘Texas.”

I roll my eyes so hard it practically counts as cardio.

But when I look away, I’m smiling.

Just a little.

And that feels like something too.

I survive the training room.

Technically.

Emotionally, I leave half my dignity in a roll of pre-wrap and the other half somewhere between the ice machine and Drew Travers calling me Texas like he invented the state.

But I survive.

That should count for something.

Apparently it does not.

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