Mr.Right novel Chapter 19

I think I'm going to pass out.

As in, I think I'm going to pass out right here, right now, on the cold floor, with my limbs spread out like Nutella on bread. 

"Go faster, come on. Even my Granny can do better than this," Maverick says and I wipe the sweat from my forehead and increase my pace on the treadmill.

You might well be asking why I'm on a treadmill, sweating like a pig and running as though my life depends on it. Well, I got into something resembling a therapy session with Maverick and this was the result.

Our conversation went something like this:

"What are the qualities you admire in a person, April?" he said. He was seated opposite me with one of his legs crossed over the other.

I hesitated. "Um... I like a person who's confident being who they are and who doesn't care what others think of them."

He nodded  at my answer and wrote something down in his notepad before looking back at me. "And why do you admire those things?"

"I want to see the things I don't have in others," I said.

"Do you believe that everyone is beautiful in their own way?"

I gave a dry laugh. "Excuse me? Have you met me? We can't all be beautiful or I wouldn't be here, feeling like this. Some of us are just... existing. We don't like anyone and nobody likes us."

I saw him frown before writing something back on his notepad. "If you had the chance to change something about yourself, what would that be?"

"My size," I said, without thinking, and both his eyebrows shot up. "I've been criticized more times than I can count, just because I'm... big. I get that it's good to love yourself, no matter who you are, but it's hard to believe that when there are so many jerks in the world."

And that was the end of the 'semi therapy session'. The next thing Maverick did was drag out a treadmill and order me to get on it. You know the rest.

I was pretty powerless at resisting him.

"That's forty-five minutes already." He punches a button on the treadmill which causes it to stop.

I place my hands on my knees and pant.

"This is crazy," I say between breaths and watch him tut at me.

"You have to up your game. There're still thirty more days to go." He strolls out of the room, as if he hasn't just given me a death sentence - how am I supposed to do thirty more days of this? - and I follow behind.

When I reach the kitchen, I fling the refrigerator open, taking out a huge, shiny tub of ice cream.

Maverick catches my wrist. "Let me have a look at that. It looks expired."

I look down at the ice cream before looking at him in confusion and handing it over. Then he does the unexpected.

He empties all the ice cream into the bin.

"You monster!" I stare at the empty ice cream tub.

"Chill out," says Maverick calmly. "Ice cream is the least thing you need, right now. In fact, here's a diet chart that you're going to adhere to from now on." He brings out a marker pen from the cupboards and draws something that looks like a table on the refrigerator.

I have no idea what's going on right now. I just want more ice cream.

"On Monday mornings, you're having three hard-boiled eggs, some grapefruit, one banana and black coffee." He's writing the items down on the refrigerator as he's talking.

"I don't like bananas," I say, whining slightly.

"Well, I hear they go great with black coffee."

"But I don't like-"

He cuts me off. "For lunch," he says loudly, as though he hasn't heard me. "You'll have two hard-boiled eggs, one banana and black coffee."

"Why so many bananas?"

"Fine," huffs Maverick, turning to write on the fridge again. "In that case, there'll be no bananas for dinner. You can just have three hard-boiled eggs and some salad."

I scrunch my face in disgust at the mention of salad. I haven't eaten anything that looks remotely like lettuce since, well... since forever.

He continues like this until he's covered the whole week and the fridge just looks like a sad mess of eggs and salad.

My ice-cream days are officially over.

"Can't I at least have some pie?" I ask desperately, in a last-ditch attempt to make the week more exciting.

But Maverick's putting down the marker pen and getting ready to leave the house. "Duty calls. See you later. And no, no pie." He retrieves his coat from the arm of a chair and saunters out of the house.

My cell phone vibrates on the counter and I pick it up, without looking at the caller ID.

"Jack's in town," a familiar voice says on the other end of the call and I light up.

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