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It’s been nonstop at Star— I mean, Emerald.

Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

Team tryouts start next week, and I’ve had tons of private lessons since I got home. It’s been the happiest I’ve been in months, but fuck, am I tired.

“When am I going to get my time?” Jett whines as I rise from my side of the bed.

“You know, for such a manly fella, you’re quite the baby.” I give him a smirk, loving how he simps for me. Especially in that big, beautiful body of his.

“As long as I’m your baby, that’s all I care about.”

My eyes roll as I throw on a pair of leggings and a cropped ballet sweatshirt with a sports bra. One of the many outfits Jett insisted on buying for me. After all my stuff is in my bag, a shirtless Jett follows me, immediately starting on making me an iced matcha.

Dreams really do come true.

“Doing this will definitely help get you some time.”

He eyes me over the top of the bowl as he pours the bright green tea over pureed strawberries, oat milk, and ice.

My favorite.

“Bringing out all my stops.” He winks.

“You’ve done this every morning; it’s not necessarily every stop.”

He gives me a crooked smirk before pulling my body close to his. “Semantics,” he mutters against my ear.

With my cold latte and phone in one hand, and keys in the other, I miss the freeness of being able to touch his strong body.

Behind his back, my phone vibrates off the hook, just like it has been for the last two weeks.

“I’ve got to set up a new email; I keep getting all these weird spam emails about different studio tryouts. Someone must’ve put me on an email blast list or something.”

Kissing my forehead, he ignores my bitching, then eventually lets go to send me on my way. With the door half open, I look back at him, loving the way he watches me leave every morning.

“Can I take you to dinner tonight?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

“I’m not done at the studio until eight. I’ll be sweaty and gross.”

His eyes darken with a hunger I love to see.

“No dress code. Just me, you, and good food. I’ll pick you up at eight, yeah?”

I smile. “Okay, yeah.”

By the time seven rolls around, I’ve worked up an appetite and an attitude. My email is flooded. Two hundred messages in an hour, all from different studios, but all signed at the bottom with a forest-green crest.

The same one that’s now plastered all over our studio.

“Do you keep getting all of these emails?” I ask Vic, the second we let the last round of girls out of our joint private lesson.

She yanks her phone off the auxiliary cord and scrolls for a second.

“Nope, just spam from Victoria’s Secret and a new cold brew coffee company.”

What the hell?

“I don’t know what the heck is going on, but my phone’s been going crazy all morning. They’re all signed like they’re coming from this studio.”