Harper ran her tongue along her teeth to pick up any remaining granules of sugar while she clicked through page after page of classifieds. She hadn’t heard a peep from Sean since the strange encounter that morning. What do you expect? It’s not like he can go anywhere. She’d probably sleep the day away, too, if she was housebound with no financial worries.

She went from Craigslist to Searchtempest and finally started scrounging through the local papers’ online listings. When she’d first started her search, she’d adamantly only looked for listings adjacent to modeling. Now, she filtered for any reasonable key phrase from “fashion house” to “art gallery” and “designer.”

It hadn’t taken long for her to write off the major job search sites. Whenever she’d find a good fit, she’d spend thirty minutes completing a time-consuming form only to get an auto-response email of, “Thank you for submitting your resume! All positions have been filled, but we’ll keep your application on file for future consideration.”

Clearly, these so-called employers were simply hoarding resumes for leverage and data. Harper sighed as she hit submit on the eleventh application of the day. Immediately, a series of red warnings popped up. “Please correct the entries.” Fuck. If you don’t do the formatting just how they want it, the whole thing is a bust.

Harper rubbed her eyes, but every time she closed them images of Sean appeared. The last two days, ever since move-in, he’d consumed her thoughts. It hadn’t helped seeing his bulging erection through the pajama pants that morning, either. She’d felt his eyes on her bare legs before he’d made a sound. Harper had intentionally lingered longer at the refrigerator than necessary in hopes that he would take her from behind.

Stop it. You need to focus on yourself right now. And your drastically dwindling bank account. It was almost too cozy, this current situation. Connor and Sam told her over and over that she was doing all of them, Sean included, a favor. But it didn’t feel that way. Not paying any rent, any bills, and being showered with bedding, kitchenware and other basics kind of felt like the most awkward arranged marriage ever.

Except you’re not sleeping with the other half, and he’s got an ankle monitor strapped to him.

“Get it together, Harper,” she told herself. “Any idiot can get a job.” She’d toyed with the idea of entry-level positions. A lot of models waitressed on the side, even when they were booking shows and campaigns. She knew a lot of money could be made in tips if you looked good and flirted, but she knew she’d be a disastrous waitress. More importantly, she didn’t want to be around food nonstop. The temptation would be too much.

Her calendar popped up with a reminder. “Pay Chase credit card.” Shit. What’s the minimum payment on this one going to be?

Harper opened the calendar to click on the link and saw another, standing reminder that she hadn’t scheduled as a pop-up. “Aunt Flow.” It was marked for yesterday.

Wait. My period was supposed to start yesterday? A flurry of panic rushed through her, but she tried to push it aside. It was normal for her to miss periods or not get them at all—one of the few good side effects of having such low body fat. But for the past few months, she’d been fairly regular. She hadn’t liked to dwell on that since it was a clear reminder of how fat she’d become.

Stress can stop it, too, she reminded herself. Besides, Connor had commented when he’d moved her in that she was looking “thinner than usual.” That compliment had given her a glow that had lasted for hours. It had been awhile since she’d weighed herself. Maybe she was finally back to her goal weight. Thanks to Sean and his nonstop drama, she thought.

Harper’s phone lit up with a text. Hey, whore, P wrote. Come out tonight! Industry party and I have a +1. Oodles of potential bosses for you to win over.

An industry party. P had dragged her to some before. They were ridiculous affairs where half the partygoers donned leather assless chaps and not much else. Still, the leather, kink and adult industries had money, that was certain. She just didn’t want to get propositioned nonstop to be a “new leading lady” like last time.

You have your read receipts on, bitch, P texted. I know you’re there.

Sorry, I have to decline, she said. Not feeling good.

It was partially true. Her stomach had been feeling iffy, but she’d written it off as stress and the sudden surge of sugar from the chocolate square. It had to have at least 150 calories, it was so rich. The last thing she needed was a night of boozing with P.

Boo. Hit me up if you change your mind, grandma, P said.

She couldn’t get the thought of that chocolate square out of her head. Not counting it—though of course she did—if she could make it to tomorrow morning, that would be two days of not eating. Add in the occasional squeeze of lemon to her water, that might make up twenty calories, tops.

Harper opened her food log, a simple spreadsheet. She’d tried apps and sites before, but didn’t trust them to have the correct calorie and carb count. A lot of them didn’t even have her special diet foods like zero-calorie organic condiments, so she’d waste time manually entering the information. Why do their job for them?

A spreadsheet was definitely better, and it didn’t come with those pop-up warnings that she was “not consuming adequate nutrition for her age, gender and height.” Fucking morons.

Harper scanned the calorie log. So far this week, she was under 900 calories per day. How much, exactly, was that square? She could sneak out to the pantry to peek at the wrapper, but that ran the risk of seeing Sean.

Instead, she Googled it and found the nutrition section on the official Cadbury site. With 240 calories per bar, how many squares total was it? Maybe six, that sounded right, but she’d better calculate for four just in case. That was sixty calories. Not nearly as bad as she’d thought, but not good either. It wasn’t worth the calorie currency, and it was loaded with sugar and carbs.

Besides that goddamned chocolate, all the other foods that week had been in alignment with her standards. Half a turkey burger, one-quarter of a banana immediately before a cardio session, and those 70-calorie Boca burgers with 13 grams of protein each. All fuel for her workouts and helped to keep some muscle mass. She didn’t need breasts that sagged. A little muscle, just a smidge, helped.

It wouldn’t take much to work off those 60 calories. Harper jumped up and pulled on her Lululemons and a tight, moisture-wicking tank top. The downstairs gym wasn’t particularly grand, but it had everything she needed.

Harper quietly snuck out of her room and jammed her feet into her Nikes at the door. Sean emerged from his room like he’d been waiting for her. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Uh, the gym,” she said.

“Your gym, the LA Fitness?” he asked.

She considered lying to him. Or actually going there, but then remembered her gas was nearly on empty. “No, just downstairs,” she said.

“Wait, I’ll go with you,” he said.

She frowned as he closed the door to change. Since when are you so modest?

When he reappeared, he was in blue jersey shorts and a faded university t-shirt. With a cap tucked onto his head, he looked like a college boy. One with impressive muscles.

They took the stairs at her request. Harper had read that walking downhill and down flights of stairs were some of the best things you could do for bone mineral density. However, she felt his eyes on her ass the entire time and put an extra switch in her step.

She immediately climbed onto the elliptical, thankful it was in the corner. Harper switched off the wall-mounted television, and the black screen became a mirror that let her spy on the gym space behind her.

As she watched him warm up on the treadmill for ten minutes before switching to the free weights, her heart rate peaked. Not even the interval hill settings on the elliptical could fire her up so easily.

In the reflective screen, she watched him recline the bench to a forty-five degree angle and start his chest presses. A sheen of sweat gathered at his neck and made the raven tattoo look alive. For a moment, she forgot about how disgusting she was, how weak she was for that chocolate, and tried to just focus on not soaking through her yoga pants at the sight of him.

Sean sat up, whipped off his shirt, and switched to seated shoulder raises. Goddamn. Harper looked at the timer. Twenty-five minutes. Just five minutes more, and that would be enough—then she could race upstairs and take care of herself. If she could just get herself off with that image of Sean in her head, maybe it would straighten everything out.

When the elliptical hit the thirty-minute mark, she turned it off. Sean appeared beside her like a shark circling its prey. “Want to get lunch?” he asked. He didn’t look at her face. Instead, he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was taking in her body. She blushed as his gaze skimmed across her crotch, and willed herself not to look and check if the violet pants had turned a deep purple at her center.

“No,” she said brusquely and hopped off the machine. No way was he going to force more food down her throat.

“Are you sure? You were going pretty hard on that machine.”

She turned crimson at the words.

“You need to feed your muscles after you work them,” he said.

“Okay! Fine,” she said. Great. I just worked off that chocolate, and for what?

They went up the stairs in silence, Harper skipping every other step for a little extra workout.

“Meet you out here in twenty,” he called to her as she shut her bedroom door.

Any horniness she’d harbored was long gone by the time she peeled off her workout clothes.

Living together made hiding anorexia and bulimia a lot trickier. She was going to have to up her game if she was going to keep this secret buried.