Page 67 of Power Play

His answer appeared almost immediately.

Ryan: Body armor?

A smile tugged at my mouth.

Charm: Emotional or literal?

Ryan: I can get both.

Charm: It’s shopping. I think I’ll survive.

Ryan: That wasn’t what I asked.

I looked at my reflection again and hated that he could make me smile while I hated the person doing it.

My hand moved toward the drawer beneath the vanity.

The measuring tape sat exactly where I had left it, tucked behind extra brushes and products nobody would ever need to move. I pulled it out without hesitation, and relief arrived before I wrapped it around any part of me, carried entirely by the possibility that numbers might settle what the mirror refused to show me.

That should have bothered me enough to put it away.

Instead, I looped it around my waist and pulled until the tape pressed into my skin.

The number was smaller than the one I remembered from last week.

For several seconds, my chest loosened.

Then I decided I might have measured from the wrong place.

I adjusted the tape and tried again. The number changed, and the relief disappeared. I measured a third time, tightening it until I could feel my pulse beneath the pressure, but that number felt dishonest too.

My hips came next, followed by each thigh because one looked larger in the mirror and I needed to know whether it actually was. When the difference was less than a quarter inch, I measured again. I moved to my upper arms after that, then returned to my waist because I no longer trusted the first three numbers.

The ritual had become too practiced to require thought. Measure. Check. Adjust. Start over. Every number offered relief for a few seconds before my brain found a reason it couldn’t be trusted.

By the time I wound the tape into a perfect circle and returned it to the drawer, my skin carried faint pink lines and the mirror looked worse than it had before.

Ryan had texted again.

Ryan: You don’t need luck.

I stared at the message longer than necessary.

Charm: You have an alarming amount of faith in me.

The typing bubble appeared.

Ryan: Somebody should until you catch up.

My throat tightened before I could stop it.

I smiled at the screen, then caught sight of myself behind the phone. The warmth vanished almost immediately.

My hair had frizzed around my temples. My face looked tired. My stomach still looked wrong.

I set the phone down and started getting dressed.

My mother chose brunch at the hotel attached to the first boutique because Crystal Harlen believed luxury became more impressive when it was also efficient. She was already seated near the windows when I arrived, looking perfectly composed in pale blue with her blonde hair falling in smooth waves around her shoulders. A cream handbag sat beside her chair instead of beneath it, and the sunlight caught the pearls at her ears every time she turned her head.