Chapter 2 He caught me!

Viola

The shower was so loud and it should have drowned out my heartbeat. Instead, it just made the beat sound louder.

I lay frozen under the bed, cheek against the carpet, my brain a total mess of panic and claustrophobia and a very unwelcome wave of nostalgia.

Through the frosted shower glass which I could still see, steam rolled out into the room like fog. And in the middle of that steam, his silhouette moved.

He lifted his arms, rolling his shoulders under the water. Even blurred out by the condensation, the guy was huge. Strong. I closed my eyes again, and I could feel heat creeping up my neck.

Don't think about his body, I told myself. Think about what a jerk he used to be. Think about how he humiliated you and crushed your heart. Think about how much you hated him.

And I did hate him. At least, I'd been trying to for ten years.

My brain dragged me back to a time I'd spent years trying to bury.

Before he was the untouchable king of racing, before he was a billionaire playboy dating supermodels, he was just Bryce. The boy next door. My older brother's best friend. And my total dream guy as well as my nightmare.

As for me, I was Viola. Plain Viola. If there was a prize for being aggressively average, I'd have won it with any doubt. I was the wallflower, not the movie kind with a secret genius hidden underneath. Just plain. Very chunky, always hiding myself in oversized outfits and thick glasses with defident manners. I believed so well that half my graduating class probably thought I transferred in senior year.

Bryce was the sun, and I was a sad little rock stuck in his orbit.

He was born to be the brightest star, and I was just someone sitting in the back row.

He'd always been meticulous about everything: his karting gear, his clothes, all of those. And he had this natural arrogance. He knew he was better than everyone, and he made sure nobody forgot it.

He teased me constantly and called me "Cream Puff", because I was soft and round and turned bright pink every time he looked at me.

I convinced myself his teasing meant he liked me. That behind the smirk and the sharp tongue, he actually saw me.

So, high on rom-coms and teenage delusion, I decided to shoot my shot at senior year.

I wasn't invited, obviously. I snuck into the country club wearing a puffy pink dress that looked like a tragic and cheap cupcake, just to find him. I cornered him in the conservatory, away from the music and the pretty people.

My hands shook as I smoothed down the skirt.

"Bryce," I stammered. My voice was trembling so hard but I tried to sound cold and confident, which I was not very good at.

"I... I really like you. Actually, I love you. Shall I ask you to dance?"

He stared at me for a long and awful moment. Those piercing blue eyes swept over me. My frizzy hair. My red face. My childish dress.

Then he laughed.

I couldn't forget his amused and pitiful expression. It seemed like what I just said had wounded his pride.

"Dance with you, Cream Puff?" he said, smirking. "I think I'll pass. You're a little uncoordinated. I'd rather not have my feet crushed tonight. I need them for racing."

It struck me like a bomb, totally shattering my pride, even though I was certain he wouldn't even notice I had any pride at all.

Tears stung my eyes instantly, but the tiny scrap of pride I had left kicked in.

"You're a rude, arrogant jerk." I choked out.

Then, running on pure mortification, I lifted my sensible block heel and stomped down on his foot as hard as I could.

He yelled and stumbled back, and I ran. I ran out of that shithole and left the pieces of my stupid teenage heart all over the floor.

He could have rejected me in a more gentle and polite way. I mean, even if you didn't like someone, you shouldn't hurt their heart and their dignity.

That night changed everything. The humiliation burned the Cream Puff right out of me. I stopped hiding. I started working out. I buried myself in university, joined the debate team, forced people to see me. I turned the pain he gave me into fuel.

Ten years later, I wasn't the chubby wallflower anymore. I was a prime-time TV host for a major sports network. I was sharp, fit, and fully in control. I wore stilettos and suits that said don't mess with me. I interviewed CEOs, politicians, celebrities and so on.

Over the past ten years, there were many men confessing their feelings to me, and I rejected some of them. But I was never as arrogant as him and never blind to how others felt.

I knew it took courage , which was the most precious thing in the world, to confess one's love.

You can say no, but you have to show them your respect.

Byrce, obviously, didn't know what respect meant.

I swore I would never be this wrecked in front of him again.

I'd imagined our reunion a hundred times over. We encountered each other at work. He'd see how much I'd changed, and I'd brush him off without a second glance.

Yet here I was, still in a mess.

The shower shut off, dragging me back to the nightmare of right now.

Just stay in the bathroom, I begged silently. Dry your hair. Brush your teeth. Do whatever annoyingly hot men do in front of mirrors.

But his footsteps got closer. He was coming back into the bedroom.

I couldn't help it. My eyes drifted open.

He stopped right in front of the bed.

Nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water dripping down his legst, running over his ankles and feet, disappearing in the carpet.

He was so gorgeous. The kind that made it hard to breathe.

I reminded myself of his laugh. He was a pretty shell with a cold arrogant center. He was not worth the fluttering in my chest.

He tossed another towel onto a chair, and I gussed he just used it to rub his hair. Then he went completely still.

The silence stretched on and on.

I stayed frozen, wishing hard for invisibility.

Then, slowly, his voice cut through the quiet.

"You know," he said with his casual tone, with a dangerous little amusement under it. "If you wanted to admire the game, Cream Puff, you could've just asked me for a front row seat."

My blood turned out to be as cold as ice.

How did he know it was me hiding under the bed? Did he have some kind of super power?

My brain totally went blank.

"You can come out now," he added, taking one slow step toward the bed. "Unless you're planning to spend the night down there. I should probably charge you rent."

Nowhere to hide. Game over. Done. Spectacularly, humiliatingly done.

I was still hiding under the bed, frozen stiff with embarrassment and shame. Ugh, why can't I be a pangolin? Then I could dig a hole and bolt in instantly.

He knelt down, and our eyes locked. Those blue eyes were full of teasing. Oh god, his face. It was still perfect, even sharper with newfound confidence and swagger, and it made me burn with humiliation.

He held out a hand toward me and said, "What? Planning to spend the night under my bed?"

I took a deep, shaky breath and put my hands on the carpet. I was completely humiliated, but ten years of building myself up wasn't just going to vanish. If I was going down, I was going down swinging.

I pushed his hand away and crawled out from under the bed. I hoped playing it cool could rescue the dignity I had left.

I flipped my hair over my shoulder, lifted my chin, and made myself look as cold as I could be.