Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

comfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms
fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on
competition days.
When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping
through an old issue of Runner’s World.
“You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy
dolmades!”
She sounds shocked.
“What?”
“You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”
I can feel my cheeks burning red.
Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips
closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my
breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.
“I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles
me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely
use those to your advantage. And your legs are great—lean
and toned and shapely.”
“Th-thanks,” I stammer. “Do you really think I can . . .”
I can’t make myself ask the question.
Nicole looks at me for a long time before saying, “If you want
him, we’ll get him. Don’t worry. And those . . .” She gestures at my
chest. “. . . will just make the bait more appealing.”
I’m not sure how good I’ll be at using those at all, but if they’ll
help me, then I’m all for it.
“Now that your appearance is set—though you might want to try
something other than a ponytail for your hair,” she waves a hand at
my apparently inadequate hairstyle. “Let’s discuss strategy.”
149