We stop at my car, and I pull my keys and cell out of the side pocket of my bag. He tosses the duffle into the back seat and then takes my phone and texts himself, a bell dinging in his pocket.
“Seven work for you?”
“Are you always so pushy?”
“Are you always so obstinate?” He grins.
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“Good. I like a challenge.” He leans forward, hands me my phone, and kisses my cheek. “I’ll text you tonight. We can chat before our date tomorrow.”
“I’d like that.” Some of my killer confidence comes back now that we’re outside, away from judgmental eyes.
“I get off at eight. Expect to hear from me after that.” He ushers me into the driver’s seat and then closes my door like a gentleman and not a psycho stalker who waited for me outside the women’s locker room.
Maybe he’s both.
I guess I’m about to find out.
* * *
I moved to Spring City because I could buy a house for less than the cost of rent of a studio apartment in Denver, and I need the space to set up a full-time studio, as well as storage for my clothes and accessories.
Truthfully, my closet borders on ridiculous—but I always look good.
I pull into my garage—another perk of living in a house—and grab my gym bag, along with two bags of groceries. I bet those fitness resort women expect my bags to be full of chips and cookies, but mostly, I eat healthy. Loving to cook, and I don’t mind putting in the effort for one, even though cooking for two is easier. I use a lot of fresh and frozen vegetables, and make a chicken stir-fry that is to die for.
Don’t get me wrong, I love chocolate cake as much as the next girl, but like many people with extra weight on their bodies, I’m not stuffing my face with Cheetos night after night. Similar to my mom, aunt, and grandmother before them, my body was built to be curvy with plenty of tit and a lot of ass, and having both doesn’t bother me. My curves are the reason I started a business inspiring women to learn how to dress for their bodies. It’s obvious the fashion world will never catch up to us—so it’s up to women like me to fill a need as the big corporations fail the market share of consumers.
Two out of three women in America wear a size sixteen or larger, and yet the designers and the fashion magazines refuse to cater to over two-thirds of the population.
It’s amazing—and stupid.
I love fashion, and was lucky to be born during a time I could create an online platform and do things my mother and grandmother only dreamed about. I’d love to be more inclusive in my sizing, but I run my business out of my home and am currently stretched to capacity. Meanwhile, I cater to the women outside of my range with my YouTube videos, giving them links to most of the articles of clothing I feature in my subscription boxes.
My phone beeps with a message.“Good evening.”
I check the time, two minutes after the hour.
“Wow. You are punctual.” I reply.
“It took me a minute to get out of the building. Can you talk?”
“Sure.” My phone rings seconds later, and I chuckle. “Hello, Lucas.”
“Hey, Aila. How are you this evening?”
I raise my brow, wondering how long it will take him to ask me to join him for a drink, or to come watch a movie at his place, or tell me how badly he wants to fuck me. At least he didn’t make his first message to me beHey Sexy. That’s almost always red flag number one.
“I’m good. How was the rest of your gym time?”
He sighs. “It was fine.”
“Do you like training bored housewives?” I try to keep the snark out of my voice, but it’s hard after the experience I just had. So hard.
I try my damnedest to not judge people by their shapes because I don’t like being judged by my curves, but the amount of unveiled disdain I saw today reminds me of why I do what I do. It also reminds me why I don’t hang out in places like that.
“Not really, but it pays well, and I’ve been able to pay off my student loans.”