Muffin Top (Page 3)

As Harbor City’s premiere crisis communications specialists, all of her clients were of the troublesome variety, but damn, getting Ice Knights player Zach Blackburn, the Most Hated Man In Harbor City, out of another bad press article was going to make her gray by thirty. All she wanted tonight was to enjoy a good meal and not worry about anything.

Instead, the concern troll in the shitty suit had invited himself over to let her know that if she’d only ordered a salad, she might actually walk out of the bar with someone instead of a few additional pounds.

“And what business is it of yours what I eat?” She punctuated the question by slathering a fry in Sriracha and popping it in her mouth.

“No need to get defensive there, I’m just trying to help,” said the guy—who hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself or—wait for it—say hi before launching into his unasked-for monologue about her eating habits. “I mean, come on, no woman comes into a bar alone unless she’s desperate for some male company. It’s all about showing up and looking decorative.”

Now that was just some sexist bullshit right there. Who in the hell ever said that to a guy? Answer: no one.

“Really?” She pushed her steak knife farther away from her plate so she wouldn’t be tempted to stab him with it. “You don’t think I might just want a Mountain Dew and a burger?”

The guy went on as if she hadn’t said a thing. “I’m serious. You have a great face. If you just upped the veggies and eliminated the carbs, high-fat protein, and sugar, you’d be a solid eight instead of a five.”

She eyeballed the guy who wouldn’t stop flapping his gums about things that had nothing to do with him. He was balding and wore a bad suit that only emphasized his beer belly—and he wanted to give her tips about how to look good? Of course he did.

Her chin started to quiver, and she ground her jaw tightly closed. This asshole would not make her cry. It didn’t hurt, what people thought of her, if she didn’t show it.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Muffin.

Lucy was a healthy weight. She had an abundance of curves, sure, but she was healthy. And more importantly, finally happy with her plus-sized body. But times like this, assholes like this, really had a way of stripping her hard-fought confidence. Why was it socially unacceptable to shame anyone for anything except their weight? Sadly, it was still open season on those who didn’t look like what everyone else considered skinny.

She was used to being ignored when she walked into a department store. Or skipped in a line when someone thinner weaved around her. Or had her opinions in meetings dismissed simply because they came from a person of her size. But having someone publicly rate her attractiveness? That was a new low.

She briefly wondered what her “score” would be in an orange jumpsuit.

“And,” he continued, totally clueless about how close to death he was, “I’m only rating you as a five because your face is nice and your tits are fucking fantastic.”

That was it. She was going to have to kill a man in the middle of a cop bar on a Friday night. They better have chocolate cake in prison, but even if they didn’t, it would probably be worth it.

“There you are, honey,” said a deep voice she recognized just as a very large shadow fell across her table.

She looked up—way up—into the beyond-handsome face of Frankie Hartigan, who was built like a redwood tree and, rumor had it, had one between his legs.

“I’m sorry I was late for our date.” He glanced over at the dipshit veggie-pusher. “Is this guy giving you a hard time, honey?”

Chapter Two

The temptation to say “Yes, Frankie, please squash him like a bug while I clap and watch” was so, so strong—like, the guys who pull semi trucks with their teeth strong. Instead, she played along with her best friend’s fiancé’s brother—OMG, that was now the name of her imaginary all-girl ska band—and smiled sweetly up at him.

“He was bothered by my dinner order, honey.”

“Really?” Frankie looked down at her plate, over to the dipshit, and then right at her. There was no missing the devil in his eyes right before he turned his attention back to the other man. “What’s wrong with what my girl’s eating?”

Mr. In Her Business blanched. Literally. The color drained out of his face so fast that he resembled one of those swipe right before and after photos on makeover blogs. How in the hell she managed to not laugh out loud she had no frickin’ clue.

“N-n-nothing,” the man stuttered.

Nope. He was not getting off that easily.

She looked up at Frankie, still standing next to her chair, his big hand braced on the back of it, and said in the clueless voice that anyone with a brain would know meant there was danger ahead, “He said I should have ordered a salad, then I might have a chance to move from a five to an eight. I’m a five because I have great tits.”

Thunderous didn’t begin to describe the dark look of pure vengeance that crossed Frankie’s face, making even the freckles that crossed over the bridge of his nose look scary. Mr. Buttinsky made a little squeaking noise that reminded Lucy of the sound of air coming out of a balloon when someone pulled the tip taut as it was deflating. Frankie took a step forward, menace vibrating off of him in waves. The other guy didn’t bother to say a word, he just took off, weaving his way at a fast clip through the crowded bar and out the front door. Lucy liked to imagine that he peed his pants a little as he did so.

“Thanks, Frankie,” she said to the man still staring at the departing figure of Mr. Peed His Pants. “I owe you one.”

Her ginger knight in well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt made some kind of noise that maybe was a response in the affirmative. It sounded kinda like “no problem.” Whatever. She was used to that from guys. She was only of interest until a hotter, skinnier, or prettier woman came along. It was the universal fat chick cloaking device.

Determined not to let it annoy her as much as it usually would, she turned back to her jalapeño cheeseburger, spicy fries, and soda. Now she could finally enjoy her dinner in peace.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Frankie clunked down a three-fourths filled mug of beer on the other side of her table, pulled out the chair across from her, and sat down. Before she could even ask what he was doing, he waved the waitress over and told her he wanted whatever Lucy was eating, plus an extra order of fries and another beer. Once she’d left, he turned his attention to Lucy and gave her what could only be described as a vibrator smile. She named it that in her head—thankfully only in her head—because she now had a desperate need for her vibrator and maybe a fresh pack of batteries.

“You’re not gonna make me eat alone now that we’re on a date, are you?” he asked, swiping one of her fries.

She hated to stereotype, but he was really hot and, well, pretty people weren’t known for being the smartest in the room. And add to that the fact that his muscles had muscles and she decided to speak a little slower than usual. “We’re not on a date.”

He cocked his head to one side and blinked his blue eyes at her and gave her a wink, obviously sending the message that he was just messing with her. “But that’s what I told that chucklehead.”

Her interactions with the oldest Hartigan had been limited to large get-togethers that involved her bestie Gina and her fiancé, Frankie’s brother, Ford. They hadn’t really talked before. In fact, he was the kind of hot that meant he was usually surrounded by whatever single women were there. But still, she was sure he had someplace else to go.