Page 10 of MOM

"I used to just take it. The abuse. The insults. The punches."

"Why?"

I take a deep breath. "Because part of me agreed with the bullies and thought I deserved it. So when I came home from school, I'd lock myself in my room and…crochet."

"Ohhhh."

"My grandma taught me. She passed away when I was nine. I carried on doing it as a way of still feeling close to her. And it had the added bonus of relaxing me and preparing me for another nightmare day at school the following day."

Decker nods smoothly, like the unknown pieces of my puzzle are falling into place for him.

"So how did…" He waves his hand in front of me. "…all of this happen?"

I grin. He's trying so hard not to look at my body, but his gaze keeps slipping.

"In junior high, I met a girl. Mallory. We became best friends. Still are to this day, in fact. She rocked my world. She told me I was beautiful and special and that if anyone had a problem with me, it was their problem. She got me out of my shell big time."

"She sounds amazing."

"Truly, the best," I agree. "But self-belief wasn't enough. Her older brother was on the powerlifting team. He took me under his wing, and I started lifting. My body just…responded. I loved it, and in the space of a year, I went from being soft and chubby to hard and muscular. The transformation was incredible. I continued with it throughout high school, and when I graduated, a manager from MoM scouted me. I moved to LA, and the rest is history."

"Quite a story."

"Is it, though?" I ask, picking up a fry. "Small-town boy comes to LA to make it. Suffers massive public humiliation. The end."

"Hey, that's not what's happening." Decker reaches across the table and places his small hand over my giant paw. "I won't let it. You've got my word."

I feel like I've been winded, staring at our joined hands on the table. Decker must notice because he pulls back sharply. "Sorry, I shouldn't have?—"

"It's totally fine."

I look up. Turns out the guy I had pegged as a cutthroat operator is not only quite sensitive, but, judging by how his teeth are bothering his lower lip, nervous as hell right now that he's overstepped.

"Really, it's fine," I assure him.

"I normally avoid physical contact with clients."

"Well, then, maybe we can be more than just clients?" I say, watching as his chest rises and falls. "Maybe we could be friends?"

"Sure," he says, still wound up way tighter than I'd like him to be. "Friends."

8

Decker

Friends?

Friends?!

What the hell am I doing agreeing to being Rocky's friend? That's not what I'm here for. I've been hired to do a job. One little delay, and I'm suddenly getting friendly with the guy. This is so unlike me.

And speaking of things that are so unlike me, we're making our way back to the hotel after our meal, and we're walkingclose.

Way closer than I'd normally walk with a client.

Or even with most friends for that matter.

The sidewalks are kinda narrow and busy enough to justify it. But why am I putting myself in a position where I have to justify anything? Work and personal, there's a reason why I've always maintained a very clear boundary between the two.