Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Most days, I was confident in my plus-sized body, although it had taken me a while to embrace it. But once I stopped trying to please other people and learned to love the body I was born into, I’d felt so much relief, and much more at ease in my skin.
Did I always love my thick thighs and rounded belly? No. Did I sometimes get annoyed that shopping was so much easier for my smaller-sized sisters and friends? Yep. Did I secretly feel sort of glad that even Winnie had cellulite that showed when she wore a bathing suit? Maybe.
Okay, yes.
But I admitted it to her, and we both laughed about it.
I certainly remained aware that there would always be people who thought I needed to lose weight to be healthy (not true), who assumed I thought pizza was a vegetable (I have a much better relationship with food now than I ever did starving myself to be a ballerina), and never exercised (I work out regularly and enjoy it). But mostly, I just think there are some people who envy the fact that I can cross the room in a badass tight black dress and feel good about myself, even if I don’t meet their narrow beauty ideals.
Fuck those people. That’s their insecurity talking, not mine.
I reached the empty barstool and slid onto it, setting my clutch on the smooth, mahogany bar. The bartender, a twenty-something with a handlebar mustache, approached me with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a vodka martini, please. Grey Goose, with a twist.”
He nodded and set a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Lemon or tangerine?”
Lemon was on the tip of my tongue—my usual choice—but I answered differently. Lemon was the hamster wheel. Tangerine was a plot twist. “Tangerine,” I said with a smile.
“You got it.”
Although I was tempted to take out my phone, I didn’t. It’s what I normally would have done, and I wanted to invite a different kind of energy tonight. Maybe by changing a couple small things, I could change my luck.
I watched the bartender shake my drink, pour it into a glass, add the twist. Then I gave him a smile when he placed it in front of me. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy.”
I was just lifting the glass to my lips when I noticed someone sitting around the curve of the bar to the left. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, wore a black dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and sat alone. His hair and beard were short and dark. Our eyes met and my body grew warm. His bone structure was beautiful—his face looked like it was chiseled from granite. He held my gaze for a moment then looked away, and I did as well, focusing on the first cold sips of my martini.
But in seconds, my eyes were drawn to him again, and I noticed the hand holding his glass—wide palm, long, solid fingers, thick wrist. I indulged in a brief and magnificent fantasy that involved those hands in my hair, his beard against my cheek, that brawny chest bare and warm above me. Was it hairy? I’d bet yes. He looked like a man’s man. My nipples tingled inside the bustier I wore beneath my dress.
Once more he caught me staring, and I realized too late that I was actually biting my lip.
Gawd.
I looked down at the bar, glad it was dark in there—my cheeks had to be flushed pink. Telling myself to be cool, I sipped my drink and concentrated on minding my own business. But I got antsy and self-conscious, and after a couple minutes of listening to other people’s conversations—which mostly involved a lot of swearing about the weather and canceled flights—I pulled my phone from my clutch. I had a couple texts from my sister.
So how’s it going?
Any plot twists on the horizon?
Maybe one…
Chiseled jaw?
Check.
Dark eyes?
Check.
Magic dick strongly implied?
CHECK.
Go talk to him. See if you can get under its spell.
ITS THICK, THROBBING SPELL.
I chuckled and took another sip of my martini.
“What’s the joke?” asked the guy sitting to my right.
I flipped my phone screen-down on the bar and looked at him. “I’m sorry?”
“You were laughing. What’s the joke?” He looked about my age, wearing a white shirt, blue blazer, and cocky grin. His hair was dark blond, and he was incredibly tan, like he’d just gotten off a cruise ship.
“Oh, there’s no joke.” Nervous, I stuck my cell back into my purse. “I was just texting my sister.”
“Your sister, huh?” Then he whistled loudly and yelled at the bartender, “Hey! Can I get another round down here?”
The bartender, who was busy making other drinks, didn’t even look over. I didn’t blame him.
“The service is so shitty in this place,” the guy next to me said. “You need a pair of tits to get any attention.” He glanced at my chest. “Yours are fantastic, by the way.”