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1
PHOEBE
Ransom interrupted my rant. “Raven.”
A little shiver of happiness raced through me every time Ransom Pierce, my best friend and Charleston Cavaliers’ defenseman, called me by my nickname. Even though my name was Phoebe, he’d called me Raven when I started showing up in his bedroom window when we were kids. Now that I lived in Manhattan and he lived in Taylor Ridge, Minnesota, video chatting and texting were the best we could do.
“Yes?”
Ransom narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying to yourself in the mornings these days?”
I bit my lip playfully. “Wakey, wakey?”
He snarled. “Raven!”
I took a deep breath and blew it out. “I look at that picture of me with my mom when I was nine. I say good morning to my dead mom and then I tell myself to buck the hell up because there’s work to do.”
Ransom grunted.
I was making progress. I wasn’t always down on myself. Some days I accomplished something practically self-tolerant. On the days I wasn’t, I compared my figure to plus-sized models. Checking their measurements against my own, I found I was similar and sometimes smaller. While it should have helped, my screwed-up brain spotted the spectacular differences. Where they seemed toned, I jiggled. Where they had a nice ass, mine was flat. Oh, the irony of being a plus-sized woman lacking a juicy ass. No matter where I looked, though, there was just too much of me. At least that’s what my grandmother always said.
Ransom’s growl pulled me from my thoughts. “There’s not too much of you. Julia was wrong about that and so many other things.”
Oops. Guess I said that last part out loud. “I know, but I still hear her voice in my head.”
Ransom sighed. “You look incredible. Tell that inner voice to shut up.”
I snickered picking up the phone to hide his view of what I wore. “You’re so irritatingly positive.”
As I held the phone to look at my best friend, I admired his strong jaw, his dark brown eyes, and his long dark brown hair with natural highlights from the time he spent outside. He was always so sweet to try to get me to come to terms with my shape, my size, and my stubborn curves.
He blew out a breath. “I take up even more space than you. Does that mean something is wrong with me?”
I snorted. “You’re kidding, right? You’re the perfect specimen of a man. If you looked up demi-god in the dictionary there would be a picture of you.”
He pressed his lips together. “Phoebe Garrison …”
I tried not to drool over his bare chest. “What? I’m not wrong. You’re like seven feet tall.”
He crossed his arms with a scowl. “Six foot seven.”
Damn, he looked fine with a scowl. “And you have that long wavy hair that you wear up for games but is always soft and touchable when you wear it down.”
His arm muscles bunched with his frustration.
“And look at all those muscles,” I said pointing to my phone. “There are so many you stretch out your shirts and the thighs of your jeans!”
He growled. “I hate wearing jeans!”
I sniggered. “I know. How you wear them proves you have superhuman muscles like Thor.”
“Do not!”
“Do too,” I insisted giggling, “and your brain is filled with skills, talents, and split-second decision-making powers both on the ice and in business. You’re seriously a god among men, Chief.”
He hated when I used that nickname. I came up with it because he was bossy. “Phoebe, fucking stop! There’s nothing about me that’s perfect. I grunt instead of talking to anyone but you, I hate wearing socks and clothes in general, and I’m basically a caveman hermit.”
I snickered. “But you’re so good at that too!”
