Page 5 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

I turn slightly to the side. My ass looks even bigger from this angle. Great.

I’ve always been told I’m pretty. But never sexy. Never hot.

Just…

“A pretty girl.”

“A nice face.”

“A good smile.”

All compliments I appreciate, really.

But no man has ever looked at my thighs and forgotten what they were saying.

No man has ever stared at my hips like they were fighting the urge to put their hands on them.

No man has ever made me feel like the parts of myself I work hardest to hide are the exact parts they want to see.

And maybe that shouldn’t matter.

Most of the time, it doesn’t.

“You’re being silly,” I tell myself. “You are happy and smart and hardworking and vibrant and healthy.”

It’s a pep talk I tell myself every time I accidentally stare too long at my own reflection.

And all of these things are true.

I like myself.

I just wish, every once in a while, I could look at my body and understand how anyone else could want it.

I stare at myself for another second.

Then, because apparently self-torture is on today's itinerary, I put one hand on my hip and turn sideways.

Maybe if I⁠—

No.

I turn the other way and stick my ass out a little.

Definitely no.

“Oh, come on,” I mutter at my reflection.

I roll my shoulders back, plant both hands in my hair and give my hips an exaggerated little shimmy.

Once.

Twice.

By the third, I’m laughing.

So I commit.

I sway my hips, toss my hair and do a slow spin in the middle of the bathroom like I'm starring in the world's least convincing music video. For approximately five seconds, I stop thinking about my stomach and my thighs and whether my ass is too big.