Chapter 1
September 12th
Today’s Schedule: Elevate and Excel Gym Fitness Shoot, 8:30 AM
My body is wrecked.
With one more round of this photo shoot to go, I lean against the gym wall. According to my phone, it’s nearly six o’clock in the evening on this hot September night. My body is screaming. If my muscles could talk, they would say, No, please, no more! Reese, stop the madness, stop! After a solid round of choice swear words, that is.
I understand the rebellion.
After all, I have successfully beaten myself up with kickboxing, spinning, stability ball lunging, medicine ball crunching, and brutal squat-thrust heavy-ropes slamming. Not once, mind you, but over and over and over while the crew shot video for new promotional materials for an advertising campaign for Elevate and Excel Gym. I’m lucky enough to have been picked as one of the faces for the gym, and mentally, I’m excited about being a part of this launch.
Physically, though, I’m exhausted.
“One more to go.”
I glance up and see Amber, another model on the shoot, sink down next to me. She’s just been touched up with makeup like I have, and we’re both in yoga clothing waiting for our last shoot of the day.
Between rounds of being tortured by doing the same tough physical activity over and over, we get to sit around and wait long periods of time before we are ready to be filmed again.
Ah, the glamorous life of a fitness model.
“I think I’ll do a light workout tonight,” Amber says, brushing a lock of strawberry-blond hair away from her face. “I was going to hit the gym for my weight session, but I’m too tired.”
Oh, hell no.
This is where I’m different from a lot of fitness models I know. Most of these guys and girls will go home, workout, and then eat a meal consisting of the perfect blend of protein, carbs, and fat.
That’s so not me.
I mean, yes, I eat great most of the time, more so now that my fitness blog on Connectivity, Real.Life.Reese, has taken off. But in-between meals of sweet potatoes, chicken breast, and roasted broccoli, I eat food I love.
Like Oreos.
I’m not a hypocrite though, and I don’t lie about it. I show all of my food choices on my blog. After all, in my mind, life is about moderation.
And tonight, I’m totally having an Oreo milkshake from my favorite burger place in Uptown Dallas as soon as I get out of here.
“I’m starving,” I admit, dreaming of Oreo goodness blended with vanilla ice cream and whole milk. I’m going to ask them for cookie crumble on top, too.
Because one can never have too many Oreos.
“Oh, me, too,” Amber says, interrupting my frosty fantasy. “I told my boyfriend to have dinner ready by seven. Luckily, he models too, so he’s making a healthy meal: bean burgers on whole-grain buns, roasted veggies, and hummus.”
“Oh, yum,” I lie, thinking my cheeseburger, onion rings, and Oreo milkshake would probably make her recoil in horror.
Or give her hives.
I grin to myself.
Probably both.
I begin scrolling through my phone to kill time. I posted a pic on both Instagram and Connectivity of me getting ready for the shoot this morning, and I told them the brand of fitness clothing I was wearing, which got a lot of likes and comments.
I study my picture for a moment before I begin responding to my followers’ questions. Funny, I was teased all through middle and high school for being tall and gangly. But by senior year, everything filled out and now, I’m 5’11” and I love being tall. My long, straight, jet-black hair is swept back in a simple low ponytail, and I have minimal makeup on. My eyes—my biggest asset, as far as I’m concerned—light up my face. They are an unusual green, emerald-like, and they pop in photos.
I was discovered by a modeling agent at a volleyball game my senior year of high school. I signed and did shoots during the summers because I didn’t want it to interfere with my volleyball and school schedule, as I had a scholarship to play for SMU. Since graduating from school last May, I’ve been booked solid. The more I modeled, the more followers on Instagram and Connectivity I gained, and the more companies began reaching out for me to promote clothing, protein powders, food plans, and supplements.
As part of Real.Life.Reese, I only promote products I believe in. I’m very upfront that I will not change the content of my blog for anyone. Meaning, if I want to talk about my love of all things cookies, that’s what I’m going to do. I blogged about my philosophy on moderation, and it went viral. Now, between blogging and modeling, I make a nice living. At twenty-two, I’m not only financially independent but I’m managing to save a lot for my future, too.
I smile to myself. My success is something the thirteen-year-old me, who cried herself to sleep because she was called an ugly giraffe by mean girls, never would have seen coming.
A notification flashes on my phone.
JP Rochat liked your Connectivity post.
I freeze.
JP.
Jean-Pierre Rochat.
JP Rochat, the super-sexy Swiss hockey player for the Dallas Demons.
My heart does this weird flutter thing, something it does whenever his name pops up on my phone.
Something my heart has never done for any other man.
I flip over to my Connectivity account and see it’s the same notification as always. JP has liked my post but has not commented.
He never comments.
Following the weird heart flutter thing, a small wave of disappointment crashes over me.
What did I expect? I’ve talked to him a few times, since he’s friends with my best friend’s fiancé, but that’s all. We’re connected by simple math. Holly Johansson loves Matt Rhinelander. Matt Rhinelander plays on the Dallas Demons. Matt Rhinelander is best friends with JP Rochat. I’m Holly’s best friend, therefore I know JP Rochat.
Okay, now I’m sounding crazy doing associative property algebra with people. Obviously I’m exhausted and starving, and it’s making my brain do loopy things. Like calculating my degree of association to a super-hot hockey player from Switzerland with thick, dark-brown hair, broad shoulders, and an impeccable sense of style. In all of his pictures, he looks like he walked out of a GQ pictorial wit—
I desperately need a cheeseburger and a milkshake.
I put my phone down and close my eyes, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. Guys are always disappointing once I get to know them, and I’m sure JP would be the same. I’d discover some crappy flaw in him that would turn me off, like acting like he’s listening when he’s not. Or he could be a total alpha male, one who has to be in charge all the time. I’d hate that.
Or, worst of all, he could hate Oreos.
“Reese, Amber, ready?” the production assistant asks, coming up to us. “Final look, are you ready to be Zen?”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
I need Zen.
No more thoughts of JP.
But now that his ‘like’ and avatar are fresh in my brain, Zen might be harder to achieve than it was before he popped up on my phone.
~ ~ ~
“That’s a wrap!” the producer says.
I exhale.
Thank goodness.
We just finished posing for the group shot, with everyone smiling cheerfully to celebrate the end of the shoot. It’s nearly seven-thirty, and I’m ravenous.
All I could think of this past hour was dinner.
Okay. Lie.
JP was in there, too.
I head back to the changing area and slip back into my own clothes, which happen to be black leopard yoga pants, a white bra top, and a black tank top layered over the top that says ‘WILL SQUAT FOR COOKIES.’
As I tug on my shirt, I wrinkle my nose. Ugh, I stink. I can smell myself. It’s that bad. I quickly rifle through my backpack, retrieve my bottle of Atelier Orange Sanguine Cologne, and let the citrus mist land on my body. Yes, another glamorous fact about the shoot today: we can’t use the showers. You have to clean up the best you can and roll out. Hopefully I smell more like fresh oranges than a gym locker room.
I draw my hair up into a topknot and swipe some Bare Minerals Gem Nude over my lips. I have a gift, Holly tells me, because I can put on lipstick perfectly without a mirror. Strange, but true.
I toss everything back into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. After I say goodbye to the crew, I exit the posh gym and head out into the steamy night. It’s still light out, and the temperature is still hot as Hades. It’s Dallas, and being born and raised here, I should expect nothing less for September.
I open the door to my car, and a surge of hot air greets me as I slip behind the wheel. Ugh. I’m hot and sticky and I feel like I put myself in a convection oven. I start the car and blast the air conditioning, waiting for it to cool down. “Something Just Like This” by The Chainsmokers & Coldplay is playing, and I begin to sing along.
I’m a horrible singer, but at least in my car, nobody can hear how awful Chris Martin’s lyrics sound coming from my mouth.
I head back to Uptown. If I cared about my fellow Dallasites, I would go home and shower first, but I’m tired and starving. I need food. Now. Patrons at the burger place will have to deal with my state of hot mess. To show I’m not evil, I’ll get my order to go so nobody will be subjected to my orange-infused-gym-sweat scent for long.
I hunt for a parking space and find one about half a block down. Perfect. I retrieve my wallet and phone from my bag and get out of the car, heading toward the restaurant. Happiness fills me as I get closer. I love my cheat meals, and I have earned this one today. And hey, I’m not shooting tomorrow, so I can have it.
I pull open the door and am greeted by the heavenly scent of grilled burgers and glorious fries. I get in line, studying the menu board as I wait to place my order. Ugh, this part is hard. I can never make up my mind. I mean, I had until I got here, but now I see all these choices and I’m conflicted. Except for the Oreo milkshake. That is non-negotiable.
When it’s my turn, I step up to the counter where a cheerful teenage boy greets me.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
Shit. I’m tormented by having to choose between a falafel burger, a bison cheeseburger, or a turkey burger with cranberry mayo.
“Um,” I say, furrowing my brow as I continue to study my options, “. . . hold on. Sorry.”
“Take your time,” the counter guy says.
“Hmm,” I say slowly to buy time. At last, I pull the trigger. “I’ll go with the bison cheeseburger. Whole grain bun, please. Oh, no mustard. Ketchup on the side. Lettuce and tomato, no onion. But extra pickles, please.”
The teen nods and hits the appropriate buttons on the screen in front of him.
“What would you like for the side?”
UGH.
“Right. I need to make a decision on the side,” I say resolutely. “I can do this.”
“I think you can, Catwoman,” a rich, European-accented voice behind me says, one that sounds like he just took a sip of Grand Marnier. “I’d be happy to give my insight if you need help, though.”
I whirl around. I know that voice.
It’s a voice I could never forget.
I find myself gazing up into the most beautiful eyes, pale green with flecks of brown and rich amber.
The eyes belong to JP Rochat.