The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 5 - 7

Chapter 5

It’s not that I hate men. If anything, I adore them—find them fascinating in all their messy, complicated glory. Like I said, I usually get along better with guys than with other women. It’s just that, when they get too close, they tend to get clingy, controlling, or downright possessive, and that’s always felt like a chokehold on my freedom. Still, I like to think I’m better at drawing lines now than I was back in the day.

That Friday night, Jenna and I took our indulgence game to a whole new level. Burgers and fries—extra crispy, dripping with grease—followed by a New York cheesecake we obliterated on the spot. Then Jenna ran down to the corner store for another bottle of wine, which—shockingly—we managed to kill, too. I won’t lie; I did the heavy lifting there. But by the time we finally passed out, I was happily stuffed, sporting a full-on food baby, and it felt downright glorious. Oh, and did I mention we nearly devoured the entire box of cookies as well?

The rest of the weekend turned into a solo retreat, and honestly, I couldn’t have asked for more. DoorDash was my loyal sidekick—always there when the cravings hit—while Netflix offered a judgment-free zone no matter how many episodes I binged. I did a little half-hearted apartment searching between feasts, following up on a few leads Jenna had found on Friday, but that was about as ambitious as I got.

I didn’t have to force a smile for anyone or answer a single question about how I was really doing. Instead, I just burrowed into my own private little bubble—equal parts bliss and, yeah, maybe a bit of denial. But for now, it worked. And I wasn’t in any hurry to question it.

On Sunday, though, I had one final chore—collecting the rest of my stuff from Tanner’s condo. Fortunately, I had Chase and Jordan lined up to help. They’re both big, former college football starters, and while they’re complete teddy bears with me, they can look terrifying as hell to anyone else. Perfect. I wanted to avoid Tanner at all costs.

They showed up that afternoon, arms loaded with black trash bags and boxes stuffed with my clothes and all the random bits I’d left behind. Knowing they were coming, I’d made a point of hopping in the shower, blowing out my hair until it was smooth and bouncy. Next up: the jeans. The extra pair I’d packed turned out to be a bigger (or smaller) challenge than I’d bargained for—buttoning them took both a prayer and a shimmy dance. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been that long since I wore them last, and they’d always been snug, but never this snug. They hugged my hips and thighs like they were painted on, flaunting every curve, including a tiny muffin top that came along for the ride. But I wasn’t about to let that kill my vibe. I went through the whole unbutton-and-rebutton routine again so I could slip on a bra and a low-cut black cotton-knit bodysuit, which smoothed everything out and added just the right amount of spice.

To finish, I dabbed on just enough eyeshadow to make my eyes pop and spritzed on a bit of my Tom Ford Vanilla Sex perfume. Just because I was crashing in an Airbnb didn’t mean I had to turn into a total sloth. You know what though? Those jeans might’ve been tight, but they made me feel downright amazing. Fuller? Sure. A little softer than usual? Okay. But between the tight fit, my platinum-highlighted dirty blonde hair looking sexy as hell, and the confidence the outfit gave me, I didn’t just look good, I looked flat-out hot.

“Sorry, Celeste,” Chase murmured, lugging two trash bags inside. “Didn’t know how else to pack this stuff.”

“It’s fine,” I said, stepping out of the way so they could come in. “Was Tanner there?”

Jordan set my air purifier down near the couch, his movements easy despite the bulk of it. “Yeah, but he was on his way out,” he said, exchanging a look with Chase. “Didn’t seem too eager to chat.”

My chest tightened, a familiar pang hitting me square in the gut. But I forced myself to stay calm, keep my tone steady. “Figures. Hopefully, he’s just realizing I’m not coming back.”

Jordan offered a small smile. “He won’t give you no trouble.”

I didn’t ask for details. I trusted my gentle giants to handle Tanner’s temper. Maybe I was being childish by not going myself, but I just… couldn’t. Not after everything.

Chase glanced around my mess of an Airbnb—random clothes, wadded-up takeout containers, a few empty DoorDash bags—and hefted another trash bag full of my clothes next to the couch. “You want these anywhere in particular? Or just, uh, wherever?”

I shook my head. “Wherever’s fine. I’ll sort it out later, once I figure out what’s what. I need to do laundry anyway.”

Chase’s blue eyes drifted to the empty carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream and the scattered pastry boxes littering the coffee table. A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, his tone teasing but gentle. “You good, Celeste?”

I gave him a small smile, a little nervous laugh slipping out as I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. “Getting there,” I admitted. “Clearly eating my feelings, obviously.”

Chase seemed to catch the flicker of self-consciousness that passed through me, because he stammered, “I mean—I wasn’t trying to—like—I just—”

I waved him off, my cheeks flushing. “It’s all good. Honestly, I’ve been stress-eating since Thursday. No shame in that, right?”

Jordan, ever the sweet-talker, let his eyes sweep over me, lingering just a second too long on my hips and thighs—not that I could blame him, poured into my jeans the way I was. His grin came easy, full of that cocky charm that somehow managed not to cross the line. “You look incredible,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “And for the record? Nothing’s hotter than a girl who isn’t afraid to eat.”

I snorted, the laugh slipping out before I could stop it. “Thanks,” I said, touched despite myself. “You guys are seriously the best.”

They didn’t hesitate, folding me into one of their classic lopsided group hugs. Warm and solid, their arms around me felt like a fortress. And yeah, I could practically feel their attraction, that subtle undercurrent of want buzzing just beneath the surface. The kind of thing that said, clear as day, If you gave us even the smallest hint, we’d be all in.

But they wouldn’t cross a line. They never had. It was one of the many reasons I felt so safe with them.

As they stepped back, it struck me—why do we as women torment ourselves over every pound gained, obsess over every little change? Nine out of ten guys, Tanner excluded (and even then, I had my suspicions about him sometimes), couldn’t care less if we added a few extra curves. Hell, I’d bet most of them actually liked it. Loved it, even.

Jordan patted my shoulder. “We got your stuff, no big deal. Let us know if you need anything else.”

“Oh, actually,” I said, fidgeting with the hem of my jeans. “Could you maybe help me tidy up a bit before you go? There’s a trash chute down the hall…”

“Sure,” Jordan answered, shooting me a reassuring grin. “Whatever you need.”

With that, the three of us got to work. Well, to be fair, Chase and Jordan got to work. As for me? After bending over to grab a bunched up paper towel off the floor and feeling the thin cheap denim of my way-too-tight jeans stretch to their absolute limit—seriously, I was one wrong move away from a wardrobe malfunction—I decided maybe manual labor wasn’t in the cards for me today. So I settled back into the sofa with my second venti iced mocha of the day and directed traffic like a boss. 

They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they looked like they were downright enjoying themselves. Sneaky little glances my way, quick grins, like they thought they were picking up trash for some kind of queen. And honestly? I wasn’t above letting them think that.

You’d think I’d be mortified—two undeniably hot guys, knee-deep in the aftermath of my binge-eating blowout. Empty cartons, crumpled wrappers, the unapologetic evidence of a girl going full-throttle comfort mode. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.

Because Jordan wasn’t lying when he said what he said. Men? They really do love it when a girl eats. I should’ve remembered that from Carson, my freshman-year boyfriend. When I put on a few pounds, he didn’t just tolerate it—he adored it. Worshipped it even.

Not that it stopped me from going back to chasing pant sizes and numbers on the scale after I dumped him. Old habits, right? Thanks mom.

Still, it’s a reminder—nothing compares to the way men look at you when you’re just unapologetically you.

Chase didn’t bat an eye as he tackled the empty takeout containers, methodically clearing the wreckage like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jordan consolidated everything and headed straight out the door, his broad shoulders disappearing down the hall as he hauled my junk away.

Not a single complaint from either of them. And me? I just sat back, sipping my Starbucks and letting it happen, thinking maybe, just maybe, I could finally stop beating myself up for being human.

Chapter 6

The following week at work? Absolute dread. Dragging myself out of bed by eight on a Monday felt like scaling Everest without oxygen. Let’s be honest, it always does after a Sunday where “just one glass of wine” somehow morphs into three—or maybe four—and I convince myself, Sure, future-me can handle it. Spoiler alert: future-me was not impressed.

Getting through the shower and makeup routine before caffeine? Monumental. But squeezing into my shiny satin, dark brown Lululemon leggings? That was a whole other ordeal. Sexy or suffocating? Jury’s still out. Thankfully, they still had just enough stretch to save me from a seam-splitting catastrophe.

I paired them with a white spaghetti-strap tank—definitely toeing the line of office-appropriate—but threw on my cropped gray Veronica Beard hoodie to reel it back into respectable territory. Add my Tory Burch ankle boots with two-inch heels, and I was calling it a win.

And the hoodie? Not just for show. The office A/C could turn a warm summer day into an Arctic tundra in minutes. Cozy but pulled together—that was the vibe I was aiming for. And I nailed it. Because if there was going to be gossip about me and Tanner today—and there would be, considering everyone knew we were engaged—I wasn’t about to let anyone see me looking anything less than gorgeous and well put together. Sad? Not a chance. I didn’t feel sad. Just tired and bored with my job.

Then there was Starbucks. Sweet, life-giving Starbucks. The thought of that drive-thru was the carrot that got me out the door. Sure, Google spoils us with free baristas and lattes that practically beg for Instagram posts, but Monday Starbucks? Sacred. My usual—a grande cold brew with oat milk and a pump of vanilla—wasn’t cutting it today. Nope. This was yet another venti iced mocha kind of day.

And since I was already there, I grabbed an everything bagel with cream cheese. I almost caved and grabbed a brownie too but barely mustered the willpower to resist. Figured if I still felt snacky, I could always raid the free breakfast at work. Priorities, right?

Somewhere between sipping my mocha and crawling through Monday traffic, I made a decision: indulgence mode was sticking around. After my epic weekend, no way was I ready to go back to depriving myself. I was already hovering around 150—so what difference did another pound or two make?

By the time I pulled into Google’s massive underground parking garage, I went straight for the closest spot to the elevators without even thinking. Normally, I’d head for the farthest corner—part of my 10,000-steps-a-day obsession, always taking the stairs, always punishing myself for every bite of food.

Funny how fast a mindset shift can flip your world. Even the tightness of my leggings felt somehow… comforting. The waistband pressing into my belly was like a cozy reminder of all the weekend indulgences.

As I waited for the elevator, I spotted a few girls I knew exiting the late-morning yoga class, fresh from their post-workout showers at the campus gym. A month ago, I’d have been right there with them. Thankfully, the elevator dinged open before any of them had a chance to corner me and chit-chat my head off.

Inside the office, it was the same old Google grind: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the low hum of whispered gossip floating through the air. Our team was a solid twelve—Jenna and I were the babies of the bunch, while the rest, like Petros, Bobby, Kristen, Rakesh, and Vanessa (my so-called manager), were solidly late twenties or early thirties.

And then there was David who was closer to my age. Quiet. Broody. From New York—Brooklyn, I think. Apparently, he’d been a pretty good soccer player back in college. Tall, fit, and just good-looking enough to catch a girl’s eye if she was bored, even if he did have too many tattoos, and a girlfriend. 

The thing about working at Google? For a campus of nearly 3,000 employees, pulled in from every corner of the world, you’d expect more eye candy. But, honestly? Slim pickings. Most of the guys were software programmers, and they looked the part—Star Wars shirts, questionable shoes, and a permanent deer-in-the-headlights expression. If there was an exception to the rule, you’d find it in my department—recruiting—or maybe sales. The ones in recruiting, like me, had to be at least semi-polished, polished enough to sell the dream.

David mostly kept to himself, but every now and then, I’d catch him sneaking glances at me. Glances that made it seem like he was hiding a crush the size of the Empire State Building and had no clue what to do with it.

Not that I had the patience to deal with David today. I was already feeling full and sluggish, having polished off my Starbucks breakfast and already halfway through a ham-and-cheese croissant from the café in my building. Add to that my second coffee—an iced vanilla latte, creamy and sweet—and I was firmly planted in leave me alone mode when David appeared.

He hovered awkwardly over my cubicle, like a lost puppy trying to decide if it was safe to approach. His nervous energy radiated from every inch of him—shifting on his feet, dark brown hair falling over equally dark eyebrows, his eyes darting around like they didn’t know where to land. But there was a determined edge to him too, like he’d worked up the courage to come over and wasn’t about to back out now.

“Hey, Celeste,” he murmured, his voice warm but tentative.

I sighed, swiveling my chair around to face him. His gaze dropped, lingering on where my hips and thighs filled out my chair, the snugness of my tights leaving little to the imagination. His eyes flicked back up to my face, his expression sheepish, but not before I caught the way his lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile.

“Hi, David,” I said, my tone as flat as Vanessa’s hair, crossing my legs while holding my croissant in one hand like it was the scepter of my morning kingdom.

He cleared his throat, shifting again. “I, um… I heard about… you and Tanner. Just wanted to check on you.”

God. Why didn’t I call in sick today? Can’t a girl just enjoy her breakfast in peace? I took another bite of my croissant, chewing slowly as I raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a sigh. “How did (chew)you hear?”

“Well, um, Vanessa…” he trailed off, his shoulders slumping slightly like he realized how bad that sounded.

Of course. Vanessa. Queen of drama, master of pot-stirring, and basically the poster child for middle management meddling. I let out a slow breath, keeping my tone clipped. “I’m fine. It’s all for the best.”

David nodded, looking like he had more to say but didn’t quite know how to say it. His eyes flicked down again—to the curve of my legs, the way my boots hugged my ankles—before snapping back up to meet mine. Subtle, he was not. “If you need anything… I’m here,” he offered, like he was handing me the secret to world peace.

I took another bite, savoring the buttery, cheesy goodness before answering. “If (chew, chew)you really want to help, you can grab me another one of these,” I said, holding up my plastic cup.

“What is it?” 

“Tell Kyler to make me something iced, sweet, with regular milk but not too much espresso,” I said, rattling it off. “And another ham-and-cheese croissant, if they have any left.”

He froze for a second, clearly processing, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, starting to turn away.

“David?” I called after him. He spun around so fast I thought he might pull something, his face lighting up like I might ask him to prom. 

“Toss this one first,” I said, handing him my empty cup.

“Oh, right.” He fumbled with it, holding it like it was the Holy Grail. “No problem.”

And off he went, scurrying down the hall like he was on a mission to save the world. I popped the last bite of my croissant into my mouth, sank deeper into my chair, and let out a soft, smug little smirk. Boys. So predictable.

Another sugary, milky coffee and a croissant delivered right to my desk without me even having to get up? Why not?

The workday dragged on like that first season of Severance. Every task felt harder than it should’ve, my focus nowhere to be found. I tried—God, did I try—but the list of emails on my screen blurred together. My attention span? Completely checked out.

I had only been at my desk for about an hour when out of sheer bordem I grabbed my vape and headed outside for a quick puff. The nicotine hit helped a little, but not enough to make me want to dive back into work. Instead, the omelet station called my name.

Bacon cheddar omelet with avocado toast? Yes, please. Don’t mind if I do.

Walking to the cafeteria, I felt it—that subtle shift in the air that seemed to follow me wherever I went. Heads turned, men straightened up in their chairs, pretending they weren’t watching me and failing spectacularly. My stroll was slow, deliberate, almost lazy, my leggings hugging every curve like a second skin, paired with heels that added just enough sway to my stride. And my gray hoodie? Barely skimmed halfway down my back, leaving my buns on full display—round, high, and no doubt looking like a juicy peach every man in the building wanted to sink his teeth into. Each step gave them a show they couldn’t tear their eyes away from.

Glances lingered. Conversations stalled. Pencils dropped.

Let them look.

The chef slid my made-to-order omelet onto the plate with a big stupid grin. “Thanks,” I murmured, my voice soft and sweet as I carefully arranged the toast beside it. Balancing the plate, I turned and made my way back to my desk, the smell of melted cheese and crispy bacon wafting up like a little slice of heaven.

I slid into my chair and set up my little feast, feeling a flicker of contentment as I dug in. I tried—keyword tried—to focus on the endless stack of résumés on my screen while I ate. But before I knew it, my phone was in my hand, and I was knee-deep in Instagram and Pinterest.

I’d already done the dramatic sweep of deleting Tanner from my socials, but boredom had me tapping around anyway. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. Then it hit me—maybe I needed a wardrobe refresh. Let’s be honest: my clothes were tight, and who knew how long this “phase” was going to last? Plus, retail therapy always gave me that little boost I needed to survive the day.

I scrolled through Prime, Nordstrom, Abercrombie, Reformation—anywhere that might actually have something decent—then shifted to brands claiming to cater to curvier body types. Because, honestly? Even 10 pounds ago, finding jeans that fit my ass without gaping at the waist was a total joke. And the ones that actually fit my waist? Who knows—because they never made it past my hips. And don’t get me started on "plus-size" models. Size 8 is plus size? Please. Even I can’t squeeze into an 8 in some brands, and those models? All the same. Boring. Cute, maybe, but let’s be real—none of them even came close to me. Sitting in my cubicle, I knew it. I pulled up my phone camera and checked myself out. My blunt collarbone cut hair shimmered like spun gold—thick, soft, and polished, like I’d just walked out of a salon, which was exactly what I was going for. The sunlight streamed through the window, catching it just right, bouncing off like I had my own personal spotlight. And yeah, I couldn’t help but smile.

And my face? Please. The kind that made people stumble over their words, lose their train of thought, and walk away from conversations wondering what just happened.

Let’s not pretend. I wasn’t just the hot girl on campus. I was the hot girl period. 

If those influencers and plus-size models could flaunt their size and rake in cash and followers, why couldn’t I? My Instagram feed turned into a carousel of possibilities, each scroll planting another seed of curiosity. For a moment, I let myself wonder—what would it be like to carry the kind of weight some of these so-called plus-size models did? Fuller hips, softer curves, and boobs that could stop traffic. And on top of that? Eating whatever you wanted without a second thought about the scale? The idea wasn’t just intriguing. It was downright tantalizing.

Jenna’s words from Friday popped into my head: You should reboot your old side hustle.

Yeah. That side hustle. The one I started on a dare—an OnlyFans account, hidden behind a pseudonym, of course. At the time, I was kind of embarrassed about it. I barely promoted it, too nervous someone I knew might stumble across it. But even with zero effort on my part? The money poured in faster than I expected. Men were practically throwing their wallets at me for photos where I was fully clothed. Bikini pics? Forget it—they lost their damn minds.

And here’s the kicker—I never even went nude. Never had to. They worshiped me in lingerie, sundresses, even casual jeans and a snug T-shirt. I could throw on a cute sweater and look like the girl-next-door, and they still couldn’t get enough.

Back in college, it felt edgy. Taboo. But now? Now, it didn’t seem so crazy. If guys were already spending their days glued to my Instagram, obsessing over every post, every story, why not make them pay? And maybe, just maybe, give them a little something extra while I was at it.

I was so lost in thought I almost didn’t notice the shadow looming over my desk.

“Celeste,” came a sharp voice, snapping me out of my scrolling haze.

I jolted, looking up to see Vanessa standing there, arms crossed, her sharp, judgmental gaze locked on me like a heat-seeking missile. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her perfectly arched brow lifted in disapproval.

“I’m going to assume you’re doing something work-related on that phone?” she asked, her tone laced with condescension.

My heart sank. Crap. Busted.

“Uh, sorry, it’s been a morning,” I mumbled, setting my phone down next to my mostly empty omelet plate and my still-half-full iced latte.

“I know,” she replied, her expression ice-cold. “Tanner told me what happened.”

Damn it. I forgot she used to work with Tanner at Amazon. The last thing I needed was her taking his side.

“It just didn’t feel right,” I said, keeping my tone even, refusing to let her get under my skin.

“Look,” Vanessa started, her voice cutting like a blade, “I know you might be going through something right now, but that’s no excuse to spend all day eating and scrolling TikTok. You have a minimal quota to hit, Celeste. And if you want Google to renew your contract—which expires in November, by the way—you’d better get it together.”

I clenched my teeth, forcing a polite nod. “Understood.”

“And,” she added, her tone just as cold, “Starting at the beginning of next year it’s going to be highly encouraged that everyone comes into the office five days a week. So keep that in mind.”

Five days a week in this fluorescent-lit hellhole? Fantastic.

“Got it,” I said, giving her my best fake smile as she turned and strutted away.

The moment she was out of earshot, I grabbed the last bite of my toast and muttered under my breath, “Highly encouraged, my ass.”

Chapter 7

Apartment hunting in Seattle? Pure, unfiltered torture. Every listing read like it had been written by a romance novelist—“luxury,” “spacious,” “modern.” The reality? Cracked tiles, peeling paint, and “natural light” courtesy of one sad, grimy skylight. It was a soul-crushing exercise in disappointment. But I was a woman on a mission. My own place. My fresh start. Nothing was going to stop me.

And then, on the Sunday after my first full week back at work since ending things with Tanner, I found it.

A one-bedroom in Lower Queen Anne that felt like destiny. Sleek, modern, warm—it wasn’t just an apartment. It was a sanctuary. Real floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in golden light, making the glossy hardwood floors practically gleam. The private balcony overlooked a postcard-perfect view that felt straight out of Grey’s Anatomy. Stainless steel appliances glimmered in the kitchen, marble countertops stretched like promises of culinary adventures, and the rooftop deck had me dreaming of summer nights with wine and ferry boat lights.

The in-unit washer and dryer? Non-negotiable. The underground parking spot? Absolutely essential. No way was I going back to the soul-sucking, sanity-stealing scavenger hunt for parking spots every time I left the house—been there, done that in college, and swore I’d never do it again.

The price tag? The kind that made your stomach churn, your palms sweat, and your credit card scream for mercy. But the second I stepped inside, none of that mattered. This wasn’t just an apartment. This was home. The kicker? It was available to move in the exact same day my Airbnb expired. Talk about meant to be.

I signed the lease on the spot, happiness and relief bursting through me like the first sip of an iced mocha on a Monday morning.

The rest of my stay in the Airbnb? Let’s just say it was consistent. After that first week of apartment hunting and the second week spent going a little nuts on online shopping—furniture, clothes, you name it—the majority of my time was glued to the couch or sprawled out in bed. Eating. Or scrolling DoorDash, plotting what I’d eat next. It wasn’t just indulgence anymore. I wasn’t eating because I was hungry. I was eating because it felt good. Eating because I was bored. Eating because food had this magic way of making everything—work stress, breakups, life—feel a little bit better. A lot better, actually.

Was it the newfound freedom? My growing hatred for my job? I had no idea. All I knew was that I couldn’t seem to stop. What started as a little indulgence phase had snowballed into a full-blown indulgence month. I’d make promises to myself every night—tomorrow, I’ll hit the gym. Tomorrow, I’ll get back on track. But the second the smell of something mouthwatering hit my nose—gooey pizza, crispy fried chicken, or those chocolate croissants from the French bakery across the street—those promises just flew out the window.

By the time my last night in the Airbnb rolled around, curiosity got the better of me. I stepped onto the bathroom scale, bracing myself for whatever it had to say. When the numbers settled on 162, I just stared. Fourteen pounds in a month. Fourteen.

It explained a lot. Sure, I’d gone on a little shopping spree to bring my wardrobe up to speed, thinking some flowy tops and stretchy pants would help me feel more comfortable. But let’s be real—most of my clothes still felt tight. Like, annoyingly tight. Or flat-out too small.

My bras? They’d been digging into my back like they had a personal vendetta. And my older leggings? Forget it. Squeezed from every side like a human sausage casing. As for my old jeans? I hadn’t even dared to try those on again. 

I could feel it when I walked—the exaggerated sway of my hips, the extra jiggle in my butt, heavier and rounder than it used to be. My thighs looked thicker every time I sat, rubbing against each other just a little more than before. Even standing up from a chair felt different, like my body needed just a touch more effort to get moving.

And my waist? That sharp cinch I used to flaunt with every outfit had softened, giving way to the subtle beginnings of love handles that seemed to spill effortlessly over the edges of my leggings. My belly had transformed, too—taking on a new, tender softness, a little pooch that settled below and around my belly button, its presence impossible to ignore every time I shimmied into a pair of panties.

That little voice in the back of my head—the one that sounded way too much like my mom—whispered its warnings. This is getting out of hand. But I brushed it aside, pushing my hair behind my ear like that voice didn’t know me at all.

Because here’s the truth: I wasn’t mad. Shocked? Hell yes. A little scared? Absolutely. But mad? Surprisingly no.

The next morning was all about the move, and I’d called in reinforcements: Chase and Jordan. They rolled up in a U-Haul like they’d just stepped out of a home improvement commercial, both in T-shirts and jeans, exuding that easy, ex-football-player swagger. Inside the truck? My brand-new black leather sectional from Ashley Furniture, still swaddled in protective plastic, along with the queen-sized bed and Tempur-Pedic mattress I’d splurged on (with a little help from Dad, of course).

Jenna and I had already cleared out the Airbnb and hauled everything to the new place, but just that alone wiped me out. By the time we were done, I was a little sweaty and out of breath. Over a month of no exercise and nonstop indulgence hadn’t just padded my hips—it had killed whatever stamina I had left. And sure, the mid-August heat didn’t help, even if it was morning, but let’s be real: the new olive-green Lululemon tights weren’t exactly the world’s best ventilation plan—especially since they clung to my thighs and ass like shrink-wrap. They were a size large—one up from my usual mediums—and even then, my buns were pushing the limits, and I was in a constant battle with wedgies. The matching halter top looked casual and cute, but it definitely showcased my growing curves in a very “hello, I’m here” kinda way.

One glance in the mirror before we headed out had me doing a double-take. My hips looked crazy wide from certain angles, and that butt of mine? Let’s just say it didn’t fit into my hands the way it used to—softer, heavier, definitely giving me a new sway I was still getting used to. My boobs, too, decided to perk up lately, the low neckline of my top giving them an unapologetic spotlight. For some reason I thought this outfit would be slimming, but clearly it wasn’t holding back the extra pounds I’d put on this month.

Did Chase or Jordan notice? What about Jenna’s boyfriend, Aaron, who’d shown up to help, too? Were they clocking just how much more there was of me? The thought made my cheeks warm, but I shoved it aside. We had a couch to maneuver, after all.

When the guys started measuring angles and figuring out how to wedge my new sectional into the elevator, Jenna and I made a break for a coffee-and-donut run. First stop: Top Pot. The second we stepped inside, the sweet, buttery aroma of glazed, cream-filled, and sugar-dusted donuts basically gave us no chance. We pretended they weren’t all for us...until I sank my teeth into that warm gooey maple bar in the car.

Starbucks was next: caramel frappuccinos brimming with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. Normally, I wasn’t a frappuccino girl, but something cold and indulgent felt like heaven right then.

When we got back, my dad was there, grinning like he’d just won the lottery and hauling a giant 55-inch TV.
“Figured you’d need this to properly christen the new place,” he said, giving the box a proud pat.

Meanwhile, Chase and Jordan hadn’t missed a beat. While Jenna and I had been off hoarding sugar and caffeine, they’d already moved in a bunch of boxes and furniture, sweating through their shirts and hauling that sectional around like pros. By the time they got it positioned in the living room, I was half-swooning at how easy they made it all look.

I perched on one of the barstools my dad had brought, nibbling on a donut while pointing out where things should go. Jordan’s gaze flicked over me more than once—specifically on my hips whenever I leaned forward to take a bite or gestured across the room. Did he notice how much thicker I’d gotten? Did he like it? Chase, quieter than usual, still snuck a quick once-over when I handed him a water bottle. And Aaron? He just stared, until Jenna caught him and shot him her infamous side-eye.

“Maybe the sectional goes near the windows,” Jenna suggested.
“Totally agree,” I said, taking another bite of my Boston crème and licking a bit of chocolate off my thumb. “Chase, can you pivot it to face them? We want cozy with a view.”
Chase gave me a look—half amusement, half exasperation—but complied. Meanwhile, Jordan tackled the bedframe assembly like a champ, almost like he had a secret life as a furniture whisperer. Jenna and I? We supervised. From the barstools. With donuts and frappuccinos in hand.

By noon, Dad left, and I finally got to stand in the middle of my new kingdom. The sectional looked downright majestic, my bed was assembled and waiting for its big test, and that monstrous TV Dad called a “housewarming present” was mounted on the wall like some grand prize. After weeks of Airbnb purgatory, I felt like I’d stepped into my own little empire.

Of course, I had to celebrate. I thanked everyone by ordering three pizzas: pepperoni, veggie supreme with white sauce (because, you know, balance), and a meat-lovers for the guys that was basically an ode to bacon. The second that cheesy, garlicky aroma hit the room, it was game on—slices disappearing faster than you could blink. Well, mostly by Jenna and me.

Chase stood off to the side, fiddling with my new espresso machine, Mr. Man-of-Few-Words in his element with gadgets. Jordan grabbed a slice, then threw out one of his typical grand declarations: “Celeste, you know how to pick them. This place is pretty fucking sweet.”

I flopped onto the sectional, paper plate in hand, loaded up with two slices of veggie supreme and one of the meat-lovers because, let’s be real, it looked too good to pass up. 

“Thank God I adore it,” I announced with a dramatic sigh, “because I’m flat-out broke.”

Chase, still messing with the espresso machine, gave me a barely-there smirk. “Looks good,” he said, summing up the entire day with two words.

Jordan shook his head, not about to let that slide. “No way, Celeste. This isn’t just ‘good.’ This is worth every damn penny. You’re living like a queen now.” He threw in a big, theatrical wink, his eyes eating me up the same way I was devouring that pizza.

Aaron—Jenna’s boyfriend with that cool, grungy vibe—flashed a grin. “No kidding, invite us over for a rooftop BBQ soon,” he said, throwing a quick glance at Jenna to check if she approved.

Jordan, as always, pushed his luck. His eyes locked on mine for a beat, then dropped, slow and deliberate, to my thighs—snug in my green tights and stretched across the couch cushion. His gaze lingered, and the heat in it was impossible to miss. “Speaking of queens,” he teased, “been doing donkey kicks or something? Because, Celeste, you look real good these days.” He lifted his brows suggestively and tore into his pizza like he hadn’t just made me go five shades of red.

I coughed, nearly choking on molten cheese. “I promise I haven’t been near a gym in over a month,” I said, trying not to think about how true that was—or how snug my leggings felt.

Jenna, queen of sass, leaned in to whisper, “Why bother with cardio when pizza and donuts give you the curves everyone wants?” She bumped me with her elbow. “Told you. You’ve got it going on.”

My cheeks burned as I stuffed the last bit of crust into my mouth, silently praying no one noticed how flustered I was. Donkey kicks? Was that Jordan’s way of saying he’d noticed my butt getting bigger? For a second, I glanced at the two slices of pizza still on my plate. Should I feel self-conscious? Maybe. But did I? Not even a little. The fact that Jordan had clearly been looking? Yeah, I liked it. A lot, even if it did make me blush.

Truth is, I loved the attention—the idea of these guys sneaking glances, enjoying what they saw, even if I sometimes pretended I didn’t. Between Jordan’s flirty comments, Chase’s subtle, secretive smiles, and Aaron busting his butt trying not to piss off Jenna, moving day felt like a total win. I felt good—about my weight, my new place, my everything.

That night, when the hustle finally died down and I was alone, I found myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. My breasts felt heavier, like they were plotting an escape from my bra and halter top. And my tights? Thank God they were off. Even after sizing up, peeling them off was still a production—thick thigh problems, am I right?

I pictured the salt bath I’d been promising myself, the steam and warm water unraveling the day’s chaos.

Peeling off the rest of my confining clothes, I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror. My body—lush, sensual, and although with a hint of a budding belly—looked more hourglass than ever. A kind of breathtaking, exhilarating beauty I hadn’t seen in myself before. But then my mom’s voice gnawed in the back of my mind: You’re letting yourself go. I clenched my jaw, pushing back the fear. Maybe it was a slippery slope, but I wanted to slip right down it. I flicked off the bathroom light and muttered, “Tomorrow, I’ll go to the gym. Or… maybe not.”

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)